There's many a bestseller that could have been prevented by a

Flannery O’Connor, sharp-tongued and sharp-souled chronicler of the South, once said with both wit and sting: “There’s many a bestseller that could have been prevented by a good teacher.” At first hearing, it sounds like a jest, a playful jab at the flood of shallow books that rise high on waves of popularity. Yet beneath the humor lies a profound truth: that teachers, when faithful to their calling, are guardians of discernment. They do not simply cultivate skill in their students, but also form judgment, taste, and responsibility — qualities that can keep mediocrity from being crowned as greatness.

The origin of these words lies in O’Connor’s life as both a writer and a thinker steeped in faith and tradition. She saw the rise of literature that pandered to the crowd, pleasing the masses but impoverishing the spirit. Her own stories, dark yet radiant with grace, demanded more from the reader than cheap entertainment. When she spoke of the teacher, she was not merely referring to those in classrooms, but to anyone who holds the line of truth against the tide of vanity. A good teacher trains the eye to see beyond surface glitter, to hunger for substance, and to resist the temptation of easy applause.

History offers many echoes of her wisdom. Consider the plays of Sophocles and Euripides, whose tragedies were not always loved by the people of Athens but endured through centuries because they were profound. In their time, lighter comedies often drew larger crowds, but the discerning judgment of critics, philosophers, and teachers preserved the works of tragedy, which still move our hearts today. Had there been no guardians of taste, the lasting treasure might have been lost, buried under piles of fleeting amusements. This is O’Connor’s meaning: the teacher is the one who keeps us from mistaking popularity for greatness.

Or look to the example of T.S. Eliot, whose The Waste Land baffled the casual reader but transformed modern poetry. Without the training of careful teachers of literature, his dense allusions and layered voices might have been discarded as nonsense. Yet because readers were guided, the work took its place as a monument of the twentieth century. Meanwhile, countless books that thrilled the crowds for a season have vanished from memory. Here we see the truth of O’Connor’s remark: without the correcting voice of the teacher, the marketplace alone elevates what does not deserve to last.

The lesson, then, is clear: not all that is loved is worthy, and not all that is difficult is empty. The teacher exists to help us discern between the hollow and the enduring. To “prevent” a bestseller, as O’Connor put it, does not mean to stifle creativity, but to refine it, to keep the shallow from masquerading as deep, the lazy from being praised as profound. For true art, true wisdom, and true greatness require discipline, rigor, and guidance. The teacher is the midwife of these virtues, birthing clarity where the world prefers confusion.

What, then, must we practice? As readers, we must not allow ourselves to be carried by fashion alone. We must test what we consume, asking whether it nourishes the soul or merely tickles the senses. As writers, we must welcome correction, valuing those who point out our weaknesses, for their guidance may be the difference between forgettable noise and lasting truth. As teachers, we must not fear to hold the standard high, even when the crowd clamors for ease. To demand better is to shape not only students but the future of culture itself.

Therefore, O seekers of wisdom, remember Flannery O’Connor’s warning. Do not be deceived by the glitter of the bestseller, for fame is fleeting but truth endures. Trust the eye of the good teacher, whether found in a classroom, in a mentor, or in the voice of conscience within you. For though correction may sting, it preserves the noble against the flood of the trivial. In this lies the dignity of art, the integrity of culture, and the hope of generations yet to come.