The High Value of Literature

As a family that places a high value on literature, I’m still surprised and saddened when people tell me they—or their kids—only read nonfiction or Christian books. It raises an important question: Why do we read in the first place?

Of course, reading can be entertaining—and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with zoning out with a book purely for enjoyment. It can also build vocabulary (assuming the text is rich enough), and it hopefully strengthens the ability to translate written words into thought. But for us, the main reason we dedicate such a large portion of our homeschool budget to literature is literary analysis.

When I read a fictional book, I’m fully aware that the events aren’t real (even if I once desperately wished The Indian in the Cupboard were a possibility). When someone says, “I only read nonfiction,” they’re assuming the author is presenting only facts—which isn’t always the case. (And as for children’s books, let’s not forget: the Little House series is technically fiction and shouldn’t be read as straight historical record.)

Likewise, when someone reads only Christian books, there’s often an assumption that the content—whether devotional, historical, or fictional—is inherently good for the soul. That couldn’t be further from the truth.

Take Francine Rivers, for example. My issue with her books isn’t necessarily the occasional racy content (though I’d argue it’s gratuitous and question whether the books would sell without it). My real issue is that nearly every storyline centers on a woman oddly fixated on a man who treats her poorly. (Redeeming Love flips this slightly, but the male lead still shows a troubling disregard for the woman’s autonomy.) These stories often resolve with the man finding Jesus, and the woman—despite all her initial hesitation—submits to him in childlike devotion. Devotional books come with their own challenges, but the deeper issue remains: we tend to assume they’re “healthy” just because they’re labeled Christian.

There’s something deeply human and timeless about classic literature. These stories wrestle with the big questions—identity, justice, love, loss, redemption—in ways that are rich, layered, and often uncomfortable. But that’s exactly what makes them so valuable. To grow up without the classics is to miss out on some of the most powerful, soul-shaping narratives ever written. On the other hand, many people avoid classics like Huckleberry Finn, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Great Gatsby, or Ethan Frome (which, for the record, I hated in high school!) because they depict immoral behavior. But these books are not celebrations of racism, infidelity, or despair—they are critiques of the culture that tolerated them. Yes, pop culture often misses this nuance entirely. Frozen, for instance, is not about Elsa’s “Let It Go” moment (Elsa isn’t even the protagonist—Anna is!). Similarly, the appeal of The Hunger Games shouldn’t be the violence—though five books and movies later, that seems to be what stuck.

This same dynamic is at play with Anne of Green Gables. Instead of learning from Anne’s growth, many readers fixate on her dreamy impulsiveness as something to emulate. But the real truth comes at the end of the story: Anne never conformed to society, yet she still found her place in the community. She didn’t need wild fantasies to be valued—she learned to belong without losing herself. That’s far more truthful than what you’ll find in many so-called “nonfiction” books.

As for what I don’t let my kids read, the list is short. Truly immoral books haven’t really been an issue. (Though I’d absolutely ban Elsie Dinsmore—don’t get me started!) I have, however, limited their consumption of series like Nancy Drew (Susanna could get one ND at a time.) Not because the books are bad, but because I don’t want them to get used to only light reading. Also, if I let them bring home a whole stack, I probably wouldn’t see them again until the next library run.

At the end of the day, life has to be about more than getting lost in books—it’s about engaging with the world and people around us. That’s what Anne taught us, and it’s one of the greatest lessons literature can offer.