If they were a song, they would be sung by Celine Dion or possibly Sarah Brightman.
This read-a-long is not like that. We are more point-and-laugh at Wilkie Collins's huge forehead, talk smack about Dickens's dickens and where it may have been, and we don't debate Austen vs. Brontes because obviously the answer is the unfortunate-looking but genius George Eliot.
Basically, we are the Ke$ha of the literary criticism world.