Why Men Should Read Great Literature

March 1, 2026

Like the parables of Jesus, literary masterpieces hold up a telling mirror to reality — and to ourselves

By Joseph Pearce

March 1, 2026

J.R.R. Tolkien (1892-1973), professor of English language and literature and author of The Lord of the Rings trilogy, is pictured in his study at Merton College, Oxford, in 1955. (Photo by Haywood Magee / Getty Images)

Should real men read novels? Should they read poetry? Is reading good literature a good use of our time? These are questions that deserve good answers. Let’s begin, however, by asking a few more: Should we desire the facts and nothing but the facts? Or should we desire the truth and nothing but the truth? Is there a difference between facts and truth?

The great Catholic writer G.K. Chesterton thought so — and said so. “Not facts first,” he wrote. “Truth first.” What Chesterton meant was that some things are physical, whereas others are metaphysical. Things we can touch and see can be measured. They can be weighed on a scale and quantified. But what about things we can’t touch or see? What about goodness, truth and beauty? What about love? What about God?

If we want to see the truth, and not merely physical facts, we need to look beyond what we can see under a microscope or through a telescope. We need to join the Great Conversation that has gone on for thousands of years in the pages of the Great Books.

“The world is charged with the grandeur of God,” wrote 19th-century Jesuit priest and poet Gerard Manley Hopkins.

“We’re all in the gutter,” wrote profligate playwright and deathbed convert Oscar Wilde, “but some of us are looking at the stars.”

We need to learn to look up in wonder if we want to see the goodness, truth and beauty of God’s grandeur, and not merely the wickedness, lies and ugliness of the gutter. Great literature helps us do this.

Great literature also helps us look at ourselves and our neighbors more clearly. It is the most magical, mystical and miraculous of mirrors because it doesn’t just show us our physical surface, as an ordinary mirror does. It shows us what we are feeling and thinking — about ourselves and about our neighbors. It shows us who we are as human persons, not merely as physical bodies. And it shows us even more than who we are: It shows us who we should be and who we shouldn’t be.

Take, for instance, the fictional stories told by Jesus himself. The story of the prodigal son is a true story, even if the prodigal son is a fictional character, because it shows us ourselves as sinners who need to repent and seek the forgiveness of our Father. If Jesus sanctifies the telling of stories through the truths found in the parables, he sanctifies the telling of stories by us. We are made in his image and are called to be like him. He is a storyteller, and we are meant to tell stories — and to read them for the truths they show us.

It is in this light that we should approach the great works of literature that have conveyed the truth of the Gospel throughout the centuries since the time of Christ. These range from the great works of the Middle Ages by Dante, Chaucer and others, to Shakespeare and Cervantes in the 16th and 17th centuries, right through to recent times with the great Catholic novels of the past century, such as Sigrid Undset’s Kristin Lavransdatter, Georges Bernanos’ Diary of a Country Priest and Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited, and the fiction of American Catholics Flannery O’Connor and Walker Percy. The list could go on, but we will focus on three works in particular.

THE WEAKNESS OF THE WARRIOR

One of the greatest stories ever told is the Old English epic Beowulf, probably written by a Benedictine monk in the early eighth century. As with the parable of the prodigal son, Beowulf teaches a priceless lesson by showing us ourselves in the light of our relationship with God.

Beowulf is the mightiest warrior alive. No mere mortal is physically stronger. Yet in the epic he faces demonic monsters. The first, an evil creature named Grendel, he defeats by his own strength. The second is Grendel’s mother, even fiercer than her son. This time, Beowulf is armed not only with his strength but with the most powerful sword ever forged — one that had never failed in battle. Demonic evil is thus pitted against the strongest man alive, armed with the greatest technology man can make.

As Beowulf faces the monstrous demon, he discovers that his strength is insufficient and that the sword is powerless to harm his infernal foe. He learns — and we learn — that the combined power of man and technology is not enough to defeat demonic evil. It is then, as Beowulf is about to be slain, that a miraculous sword appears, with images from holy Scripture engraved on its hilt. With this God-given sword, signifying divine grace, Beowulf defeats demonic power. The meaning and moral are clear: No human person can defeat evil by his own strength and willpower — even aided by the most advanced technology. The supernatural assistance of God’s grace is essential.

LOOKING SIN IN THE EYE

Perhaps the greatest work of literature ever written is Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy. Written in the early 14th century, it serves as a memento mori — a reminder of death — prompting the reader to contemplate the Four Last Things: death, judgment, heaven and hell.

Dante places himself within the story as its protagonist. This makes it a personal “confession,” but it is also a story of universal significance. It shows us ourselves. It holds up a mirror to humanity and, therefore, to each individual person. In this sense, Dante is an everyman figure. He is one of us — our representative.

A 15th-century painting depicts the Italian poet Dante Alighieri (1265-1321) holding the Divine Comedy. — A 15th-century painting depicts the Italian poet Dante Alighieri (1265-1321) holding the Divine Comedy while gesturing toward hell, purgatory and paradise — the setting for the journey of his epic poem. [*La commedia illumina Firenze* (1465), by Domenico di Michelino (1417-91) / Santa Maria del Fiore, Duomo, Florence, Italy / Photo by Immagina / Bridgeman Images]

The story begins, significantly, on Holy Thursday, the night Christ suffered his agony in the Garden of Gethsemane. Dante is trapped in the Dark Wood, unable to escape because of his slavery to sinful habits. Through the intercession of the Blessed Virgin, he begins the journey — or pilgrimage, led by guides — through hell and purgatory to paradise. On Good Friday morning, he is led into the depths of hell, where he sees the horrific consequences of unrepented sin. As he descends through the circles of hell, where each of the seven deadly sins is punished, Dante gains a deeper knowledge of the hatefulness of sin. At last, he reaches the very pit of hell, in the presence of Satan himself at the center of the earth — the furthest “down” anyone can fall. The image calls to mind Chesterton’s quip that angels can fly because they take themselves lightly, whereas the devil falls by the force of his own gravity.

Hitting rock bottom, after looking each deadly sin in the eye and seeing it with doom-laden clarity, Dante is ready to ascend Mount Purgatory. He climbs upward out of hell, emerging at the foot of the mountain on Easter Sunday morning. Like the Lord himself, and by his power, Dante rises from the dead into the land of the living.

Dante places St. Peter’s gate at the entrance to Mount Purgatory, reminding us that purgatory is the place of cleansing for those already saved. The gate is approached by ascending three steps, symbolizing the three stages of the sacrament of penance. The first step is white marble, polished to such a gloss that Dante sees his own reflection — signifying confession. The second is black and cracked lengthwise and across, the cracks forming the shape of a cross — signifying contrition. The third is red as blood — signifying the satisfaction for sins provided by Christ’s sacrifice.

Having ascended to the summit of Mount Purgatory, Dante enters Paradise, where he meets many saints before the climactic beatific vision of God.

Dante’s journey is a mystical reflection of the journey each of us is called to take, reminding us that the purpose of life is union with God in heaven. It shows that life is a pilgrimage in which we take up our cross to follow Christ. Dante’s journey is ours. His assent is the assent we must give. His ascent, aided by the intercession of the saints, is the way to heaven.

ONE SIN TO RULE THEM ALL

It might surprise us to discover that The Lord of the Rings, a story about elves, dwarfs, wizards and hobbits, is also a story about Christ. Yet its author, J.R.R. Tolkien, a lifelong, devout Catholic, insisted that “The Lord of the Rings is, of course, a fundamentally religious and Catholic work.”

How is this so? The key that unlocks the mystery is the date on which the One Ring is destroyed. Tolkien makes March 25 the date of the ring’s destruction — the feast of the Annunciation and, according to tradition, the historical date of the Crucifixion. He thus unites the climactic moment in his story with the climactic moment in history. The date of the Incarnation — when God becomes man — and the date when the God-Man dies on the cross is the date of our redemption from sin. The power of the ring is destroyed on the same date as the power of sin is destroyed. The ring is synonymous with sin itself. It is the “One Ring to rule them all and in the darkness bind them,” just as original sin is the “One Sin” that rules us and binds us in darkness. Both are destroyed on the same divinely significant date.

The story of the prodigal son is a true story, even if the prodigal son is a fictional character, because it shows us ourselves as sinners who need to repent and seek the forgiveness of our Father.

It gets better. Frodo, the diminutive protagonist, leaves Rivendell on his mission to destroy the ring on Christmas Day and arrives at Mount Doom (Golgotha) on Good Friday. His journey parallels the life of Christ from birth to death. Frodo is the Ring-Bearer — the one who carries the weight of sin without sinning. The Ring-Bearer is the Cross-Bearer.

By contrast, the ring wearer chooses the “self-empowerment” the ring promises. Putting on the ring is an act of sin. When we put on the ring, we excommunicate ourselves from the good world God made, becoming invisible. At the same time, we become more visible to Sauron, the demonic Dark Lord, because the sinner has entered his kingdom of shadow. The power of the ring, like the power of sin, is addictive. The more we wear it, the more we come under its power. We become miserable wrecks, like Gollum, because sin “gollumizes” us.

It is no wonder that Tolkien insisted that stories — even fairy stories — hold up a mirror to man, showing us ourselves. In doing so, he and other great authors of Christian civilization were following the example of Jesus Christ — the greatest of storytellers — whose life, death and resurrection is the greatest story ever lived and, in the form of the Gospel, the greatest story ever told.

*****

JOSEPH PEARCE is the author of many books on Catholic literary topics, including Great Books for Good Men: Reflections on Literature and Manhood (Ignatius Press, 2025). A member of Msgr. Andrew K. Gwynn Council 1668 in Greenville, S.C., his website is jpearce.co.

The Council of Nicaea (18th century) by F. Pavlovskyi, I. Maksimovych, A. Galik, et al. / Holy Trinity Gate Church / Photo courtesy of Kyiv-Pechersk Lavra National Reserve

Why Men Should Read Great Literature

THE WEAKNESS OF THE WARRIOR

LOOKING SIN IN THE EYE

ONE SIN TO RULE THEM ALL

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