Why You Should Read Difficult Novels—Especially Middlemarch

I want to talk to you today about why it's worth your time to read challenging novels, especially those in the literary canon. More specifically, I'll illuminate a few reasons why you should read George Eliot’s Middlemarch by focusing on two insightful scenes from the novel.

Written in 1871 and set between 1829 and 1832, Middlemarch captures England just before the Reform Act of 1832—a significant step toward democratic governance. Now, I’m a big believer in storytelling in all its forms. Having earned a film degree, I deeply appreciate movies, miniseries, podcast dramas, audiobooks, live theatre, TikTok, YouTube, you name it. Given all these modern storytelling methods, you might wonder, as I sometimes do, why bother reading dense old novels?

Well, even though my own reading habits have shifted, I've come back to this realization: great literature nurtures something indispensable—an expansive and flourishing inner life.

Think of your mind like an AI system: feed it fluff, and it'll give you shallow, unreliable responses. Train it on the deep, rich insights accumulated over thousands of years of literature, and you get depth, nuance, and complexity. The same applies to our mental health and inner life. We don’t perform physical labor for daily bread as previous generations did, so we go to the gym to stay physically fit. Similarly, modern life doesn't always challenge our minds deeply. Television, TikTok, and movies, while fantastic, don't fully exercise the imagination in the same way as reading complex, layered texts.

Reading literature—especially challenging, canonical texts—forces us to engage deeply, to build worlds inside our minds from nothing but black ink on white pages.

Let me share two short passages from Middlemarch that vividly illustrate why it’s worth the effort.

Early in the book, Dorothea Brooke, an orphan living with her uncle, finds herself interacting with two gentlemen. One is a precise, purposeful, intellectual figure; the other, Sir James Chettam, is amiable but conventional. Dorothea, whose uncle regularly points out her political ignorance, feels warmly toward the intellectual man, Mr. Casaubon, but reacts coldly toward Sir James.

In a telling early exchange, Sir James tries to encourage Dorothea to reconsider horseback riding, praising it as essential for a lady. Dorothea rebuffs him:

"Every lady ought to be a perfect horsewoman, that she may accompany her husband."

Dorothea’s biting response comes swiftly:

“Let me hope that you will rescind that resolution about the horse, Miss Brooke,” said the persevering admirer. “I assure you, riding is the most healthy of exercises.”

“I am aware of it,” said Dorothea, coldly. “I think it would do Celia good—if she would take to it.”

“But you are such a perfect horsewoman.”

“Excuse me; I have had very little practice, and I should be easily thrown.”

“Then that is a reason for more practice. Every lady ought to be a perfect horsewoman, that she may accompany her husband.”

“You see how widely we differ, Sir James. I have made up my mind that I ought not to be a perfect horsewoman, and so I should never correspond to your pattern of a lady.”

Dorothea looked straight before her, and spoke with cold brusquerie, very much with the air of a handsome boy, in amusing contrast with the solicitous amiability of her admirer.

“I should like to know your reasons for this cruel resolution. It is not possible that you should think horsemanship wrong.”

“It is quite possible that I should think it wrong for me.”

“Oh, why?” said Sir James, in a tender tone of remonstrance.

Mr. Casaubon had come up to the table, teacup in hand, and was listening.

“We must not inquire too curiously into motives,” he interposed, in his measured way.

“Miss Brooke knows that they are apt to become feeble in the utterance: the aroma is mixed with the grosser air. We must keep the germinating grain away from the light.”

The brilliance of Eliot’s writing is apparent here, showing Dorothea's internal life—her annoyance at Sir James's narrow expectations, contrasted with her attraction to Mr. Casaubon's intellectualism:

"Here was a man who could understand the higher inward life, and with whom there could be some spiritual communion, nay, who could illuminate principle with the widest knowledge."

Later, Dorothea experiences a moment of misunderstanding that reveals even more of her internal complexity. After an engaging conversation about building idyllic cottages for workers—a cause dear to Dorothea’s idealistic heart—Sir James mistakenly believes Dorothea returns his affection. Dorothea, meanwhile, thinks he's interested in marrying her sister Celia and is pleased they'll share common interests as future siblings-in-law.

But reality soon crashes into Dorothea’s internal narrative. Celia gently corrects her, revealing gossip that Sir James intends to propose marriage to Dorothea herself. Dorothea’s reaction is profound:

"The revulsion was so strong and painful in Dorothea's mind that tears welled up and flowed abundantly. All her dear plans were embittered."

Eliot masterfully depicts Dorothea’s psychological complexity, capturing how external revelations can shockingly alter our internal narratives:

"Details asleep in her memory were now awakened to confirm the unwelcome revelation."

This insight—how hidden details can suddenly surface, reshaping our understanding of events and relationships—is something literature uniquely illuminates.

Middlemarch offers an invaluable experience: it grants us access to the full inner and outer lives of diverse individuals. We witness their thoughts, emotions, misunderstandings, and revelations. Eliot provides us something no modern medium quite matches—the depth of internal exploration. Novels let us see inside minds, experiencing perspectives we’d otherwise never fully grasp.

For instance, I as a man am granted the rare and enlightening perspective of a young woman’s inner world through Dorothea. Fellows, if you can't see the value in that, I'm not sure how else to convince you.

We've all been Dorothea at some point, desired by someone we don’t desire, or Sir James, misunderstanding affection. The magic of literature, especially a great novel like Middlemarch, lies precisely here—in its ability to reflect our inner lives with uncanny realism.

Cinema, TV, and social media, wonderful as they are, don't afford this depth. Only novels provide the opportunity to fully inhabit another person's thoughts, experiences, and moral dilemmas in this way.

Reading Middlemarch is not just entertainment; it’s a workout for your imagination, your empathy, your understanding of humanity. It enriches your inner life, provides moral insights, and enhances your ability to navigate your own world with greater wisdom.

If you're intrigued and wish to dive deeper, join me at Troubadour Studio. I lead a reading group, the Literary Canon Club, dedicated to exploring great literature. We break down complex texts, keep each other motivated, and even provide character maps to navigate the challenging but rewarding journey of reading canonical works.

Don’t settle for mental fluff. Challenge your mind, grow your internal world, and join me in reading one of the greatest English novels ever written.

Read Middlemarch.