The Great Inflation: What The Guardian's Middlemarch Choice Tells Us About Literary Canon

When a publication known for measured, reformist liberalism crowns a 19th-century English novel over modernist experimentation, the choice reveals as much about institutional self-image as literary merit.

By Monexus Staff WriterUK3-minute read17 May 2026☆ Save ↗ Share ⎙ Print

When The Guardian named George Eliot's Middlemarch the greatest novel in the English language, the reaction on social media was swift and pointed. Economist Nate Wolff observed that the choice felt "deeply on brand" for a publication he characterised as one where thoughtful English people discuss class over tea. The comparison to James Joyce's Ulysses, which the poll ranked below Eliot's 1871 masterpiece, sharpened the point: one novel shattered the English language and redefined what literature could do; the other contains, as Wolff noted, many very thoughtful English people drinking tea and having conversations.

The joke lands because it captures something real about how literary canon operates. The Guardian is not an outlier in this preference. Virginia Woolf called Middlemarch "one of the few English novels written for grown-up people," praising its psychological depth and its treatment of social change. Henry James considered it the finest work in English fiction. These are not轻率的 endorsements. They represent a particular strain of literary judgment that values the patient accumulation of social detail, the slow revelation of character, and the novel's capacity to hold a mirror to a world in transition.

What Wolff's critique points toward is the degree to which canon formation is never purely aesthetic. The novels we elevate as greatest say as much about the institutions doing the elevating as they do about the works themselves. The Guardian has, for decades, occupied a particular position in British public life: progressive in its political instincts, liberal in its cultural sympathies, suspicious of grand gestures and revolutionary claims. Its ideal reader is thoughtful, measured, inclined toward reform rather than rupture. Middlemarch, with its portrait of idealistic reformers navigating the limits of social change, fits that self-conception with uncomfortable precision.

The case for Ulysses is, in structural terms, the inverse. Joyce's novel dispensed with Victorian narrative convention entirely. It invented a new prose style for English, one that moved from the mawkish lyricism of Stephen Dedalus to the carnivalesque interior monologue of Leopold Bloom without apology or transition. It placed Dublin — not London, not the English provinces — at the centre of literary consciousness. It treated ordinary, even vulgar, experience as worthy of sustained aesthetic attention. These choices constituted a deliberate break with everything Middlemarch represents: the patient moral comedy, the omniscient narrator's reformist sympathies, the faith that social conditions can be understood and, eventually, improved.

Modernist literature more broadly has always occupied an awkward position in popular canon contests. The works tend to be formally demanding, resistant to the satisfactions of narrative closure, and suspicious of the reader's easy identification with characters. Ulysses was banned for obscenity in the United States. Finnegans Wake remains, even now, largely unread outside specialist circles. These are novels that demand something from their readers — not passive consumption but active participation in meaning-making. Polls that ask readers to rank greatest novels inevitably privilege works that reward rereading, certainly, but also works that offer a recognisable entry point on first encounter.

What remains underexamined in most of this debate is the question of what institutional readers stand to gain from each kind of choice. The Guardian's selection of Middlemarch reinforces a certain literary hierarchy: the novel of social realism, the English tradition of moral comedy, the 19th-century masterwork that taught subsequent generations what fiction could do for democratic societies. Ulysses represents a rival tradition entirely — international, experimental, suspicious of national frameworks. Its elevation would have implied a publication whose literary sympathies lay not with the patient reformers of Middlemarch but with the formal revolutionaries of 20th-century modernism.

The cultural politics of this distinction matter beyond the pages of literary criticism. Canon contests are, at their core, arguments about which traditions deserve institutional support, which aesthetics merit preservation, and which narrative traditions shape how a culture understands its own history. The Guardian's choice — however sincere the literary convictions behind it — aligns with a certain vision of what English literary culture has been and ought to remain. Whether that vision adequately accounts for the formal innovations and international ambitions of Joyce's generation is a question the poll, by its very structure, declined to answer.

This publication's culture desk noted that while the Guardian poll generated significant social media commentary, the discussion on platforms like X disproportionately featured critics rather than defenders of the choice — a dynamic that likely reflects the medium's own bias toward pithy critique over sustained literary argument.

Wire provenance

This editorial synthesis draws on the following public wire/social posts:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Middlemarch
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ulysses_(novel)