When it comes to literature, the “typical” great work has a rather predictable anatomy. An author currently dead and very acclaimed probably penned it. He did so during one of those lofty historical times we now christen the Classical period, the Renaissance, or the Enlightenment. Perhaps it could be during the modern era, too, in which case the author should have garnered a Pulitzer or a Nobel Prize. The great work muses about the meaning of life and human nature, in the most roundabout way. The harder to discern the greater the great work is. Only scientists state their conclusions in an obvious manner; the great work better be subtle. The great work is something you reverently bind in mahogany-colored leather, study in school and quote often.

At least that is what I used to think before I read anything with which I would develop a personal connection. If my memory is not tricking me, two volumes are fighting for the title. The two works that I can truly call great because I felt moved by them as a kid in one of the early grades of elementary school in rural Poland are the Bible and a short novel by Roman Pisarski, never translated into English, About the Dog Who Rode the Train. These two unlikely companions are both great works to me, despite one having a huge impact on the Western civilization and the other being a relatively irrelevant story written from the point of view of a dog (although after some further thought, it was much like Jack London’s The Call of the Wild; maybe it was objectively speaking a great work after all).

I was exposed to the stories from the Bible everywhere: at home, in church, even in the public, but not secular, school. But that’s not what made it important. Rather, it was the first work of literature that made me wonder, ask and doubt. “Grandma, but why did they do that, couldn’t they just ask god to…?” As for About the Dog Who Rode the Train, it made me cry when the narrator-dog died crushed by a cargo train. It made me sensitive to the pain of those who normally do not have a voice. Only a great work could accomplish that, even if I was only eight years old and highly impressionable at the time of reading it.

It seems to me that anything can be considered a great work; it just depends on who is judging. When a work of literature allows someone to feel, understand, or experience something he or she would otherwise not have – why would the work not deserve to be called great? Anything can be a great work to the right audience. Sure, some extent of universal appeal, a universal message, a theme that can remain relevant in different times, places, and cultures (which I would have to admit would most likely be those musings about identity, life, meaning, etc.) are often the qualities found in a great work. But before it is all that, it has to be stirring, profound, evoking emotion and thought. Basically it should not leave you the same after you read it.