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There has never been a consensus about what is great literature and what is dreck. The idea that there is some abstract greatness of literature that only the literary elite can see (along with the Emperor's fine new clothes) is mostly supported by those who consider themselves part of that elite. The rest of the world isn't actually holding their collective breath and waiting for the received wisdom from the elite before they read a book; they're out there reading whatever they like -- or, more likely, not reading anything, possibly in part because the Snooty Ones have spent years telling them that their opinion, their likes and dislikes, and their literary taste are worthless, and only the elite can and should decide what's worth reading.
Y'know, Shakespeare's plays were written for the masses. The bawdy jokes were to entertain the groundlings. They were the soap operas of their day. Now we consider them among the greatest works of literature. Is Thomas Hardy one of the greats? He wrote serials for the magazines to pay his bills while he was writing poetry. He wasn't anointed by the gatekeepers in their ivory towers. For all we know, a hundred years from now, literature students will be studying such classics as "On Basilisk Station" or "Dragonsbane". Or maybe some great novel we don't know about yet, something that will be sold as a $3 ebook off some author's website. And the elite of that day will talk about what fools we were not to recognize the great literature right in front of us.
If some academic mutual admiration society wants to congratulate each other on a shared taste in books, it'll keep them off the streets. But the rest of us are just going to keep on reading books, the books they ilke, and not really caring if the elite thinks they're worthy or not.
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