Consciously or otherwise, as a younger nation, we have always been driven to have our literary works be as influential as those of Mother England; to have subject matter with the gravitas of the Russians; to have the technical and artistic merits of the French and Germans — to create The Great American Novel.
Our search began with the heroism of Fenimore Cooper, and evolved with the endearing humanity of Mark Twain. Our existential torment was lain bare by Herman Melville. We demanded justice with Jack London and Ralph Ellison. We added moral dimensions and clarity with Harriet Beecher Stowe and Toni Morrison.