Published in the 1670s, Nicolas Boileau's Le Lutrin (The Lectern) is a masterclass in highbrow humor. It takes the formal, heroic language of epic poetry—the kind used for The Iliad—and forces it to describe a comically trivial spat among the clergy of a Parisian church.

The Story

The plot is wonderfully simple. The Treasurer of the church, a man who loves his sleep, is furious. A giant, ornate lectern has been placed in the choir, blocking his view and, more importantly, casting a shadow over his favorite napping spot. He sees this as a personal attack by the Precentor (the guy in charge of music). What follows is not a quiet word, but a full-blown, mock-heroic conflict. The Treasurer rallies his allies—a sleepy Canon and a slow-witted Chorister—while the Precentor summons his own forces. They hold dramatic councils, make grand speeches about honor and injustice, and plot tactical maneuvers worthy of a battlefield, all centered on moving (or not moving) a piece of church furniture. The poem builds to an absurd, climactic "battle" in the silent, sacred space of the church.

Why You Should Read It

I loved this book because it’s so smart and so human. Boileau isn't just making fun of priests; he's holding up a mirror to all of us. Have you ever gotten disproportionately angry about a minor inconvenience at work or home? Have you seen a committee debate something pointless for hours? That's the heart of Le Lutrin. The genius is in the contrast: the beautiful, elevated poetry describing such petty motives. It makes the characters' self-importance utterly ridiculous and completely relatable. It’s a reminder that the stakes we create in our own minds can be wildly inflated, and Boileau delivers this lesson with a smirk, not a scold.

Final Verdict

This is a perfect pick for readers who enjoy classic satire like Candide or The Rape of the Lock, but want to try something off the beaten path. It's also great for poetry fans curious about how form can be used for comedy. Because it’s short and the premise is so clear, it’s surprisingly accessible for a 17th-century work—just find a translation with good notes to catch the period-specific jabs. If you think people in powdered wigs were always serious, Le Lutrin will show you they were just as silly as we are.