Between the start of the 20th century and the beginning of the first world war, L Frank Baum wrote The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Colette wrote Claudine in Paris, Joseph Conrad wrote Heart of Darkness, Baroness Orczy wrote The Scarlet Pimpernel, EM Forster wrote Howards End, Thomas Mann wrote Death in Venice and Marcel Proust wrote Swann's Way: all books that have become classics and are still read today.

The Digested Read column began in early 2000 and has been running continuously in the Guardian ever since. Its premise is quite simple: to take the book that has been receiving the most media attention in any given week and rewrite it in about 700 words, retelling the story in the style of the author. Though with the emphasis on those aspects of the book that the author might have preferred to have gone unnoticed: the clunky plot devices, fairytale psychology, poor dialogue, stylistic tics, unedited longueurs and statements of the obvious.

Is the Digested Read parody, pastiche or satire? The distinctions are frequently blurred. It can be all three, depending on the book; but it is always meant to be entertaining, funny and informative. While the Digested Read does have fun – fairly, and yes, sometimes unfairly – at the author's expense, it is also intended as a corrective to the publishing industry itself: the disparity between the hype with which the publisher is promoting the book and the reality to which it can seldom live up. No one had any idea that the Digested Read would prove so popular or last so long when the column first started. That it has chronicled the publishing history of Britain, the US and, to a lesser extent, Europe is a fortunate coincidence.

The Digested Twenty-First Century is a collection of the best – or worst, depending on your point of view – Digested Reads from the last 14 years. All are books their publishers believed were important. All are books that came with big marketing budgets and promotional tours. All are the ones publishers expected to reach the bestseller lists. In some cases they are the ones publishers hoped might still be read in 100 years' time. So which of these books will be the Howards End or Swann's Way of 2114? You tell me.

One that probably will ...

Hilary Mantel won the Man Booker prize for each of the first two books in her Thomas Cromwell series. Both Wolf Hall and Bring Up the Bodies have been adapted into successful plays by the Royal Shakespeare Company and will almost certainly be made into films.

Bring Up the Bodies: Hilary Mantel

'It is a great honour to receive you here at Wolf Hall, your majesty," says old Sir John Seymour, fresh from tupping his daughter-in-law's quinny. "Though I had rather been expecting you some three years ago, when the first book came out."

Thomas Cromwell observes Henry's eyes lingering on Jane Seymour's heaving, virginal bosom. "The King is tiring of Anne and there is no male successor," he thinks to himself. "A wise Master Secretary would do well to prepare the way for a third marriage –"

"A wiser Master Secretary would do better to ruminate for a while on the death of his wife and daughters, and conduct imaginary conversations with Sir Thomas More in which he expresses regret that the former Lord Chancellor refused to swear the oath of succession and thus condemned himself to the block," Hilary interrupts urgently.

"And why should I want to do that?' Cromwell snaps, his mind already on how much money he can make from the dissolution of the monasteries.

"Because I'm trying to rewrite you as more of a Mr Nice Guy, you moron," Hilary says. "Instead of the hard bastard you undoubtedly are."

"Come, Crumb," yells Henry. "I need my finest pair of ears to return to court with me."

"Gosh, sire, you are much too kind. I just pootle around trying to do silly old me's inadequate best," Cromwell replies. He finds maintaining this self-effacing Stephen Fry shtick annoying, though he has to admit it does make his opponents underestimate him. And Hilary keeps assuring him that the readers love it. "But first I must retire to my house in Stepney. This present-tense narrative is making me breathless."

His spies tell Thomas that Catherine is dying. The news is not unexpected but it is timely, for the Emperor will surely not contemplate making war with Britain once the former Queen is dead. "Send my condolences," he says. "I shall miss her."

"You could at least sound as if you mean it," Hilary whispers.

"Would it help if I were to lament the loss of my wife and daughters again?"

"You learn fast," she replies.

"Ah, there you are, Cremuel!"

Thomas looks up, trying to disguise his irritation. The Queen has addressed him thus ever since the King bought her the Pink Panther box set and he doesn't find it funny. "Gosh, yes, your majesty. Pray tell me what silly old hopeless me can do to help you."

"I require an audience with the King."

He nods, though he has no intention of securing one. Since her latest miscarriage, her days as Queen are numbered. And not a moment too soon, though obviously he balances this thought with regret at how much he misses his own wife.

"Tell me, Master Smeaton," Thomas asks of one of the Queen's courtiers. "Did you make love to the Queen?"

"Oh yes," squeals Smeaton.

"And you're not just saying that because I've put you in the Tower near the torture chamber?"

"Oh no, my Lord! Her Majesty is a right goer. She's shagged absolutely everyone, including her brother."

The Master Secretary sighs. He does not want to see so many go to the block when his wife's death's on his mind, but if they will confess of their own free will, what can he do? He walks purposefully towards the King's bedchamber and tells him: "The Queen's head has unfortunately become detached from her body. Your marriage is annulled and you are free to marry Jane."

"I knew I could rely on you, Crumb," Henry laughs.

Thomas retires to Stepney to count his royalties with Hilary. "Please take your time over the last volume," he begs her. "I'd like some time to enjoy my wealth before I, too, get the chop."

'I've never ben very good at the sex thing' … Letters to Monica by Philip Larkin. Illustration for the Guardian by Neal Fox

One that might ...

As Philip Larkin's poetry will still be read in 100 years' time, it's a fair bet this collection of his letters to Monica Jones, his lover and confidante for nearly 40 years, will also still be in print.

Letters to Monica: Philip Larkin

Belfast & Hull, 1946 – 1984

My dearest Monica,

Your letter arrived while I was eating breca in Rabbithampton. I have spent the past three months thinking about a poem I haven't written and I am utterly disinclined to work. What did you think of the Test squad? I am furious the selectors have left out Laker. Increasingly I find that Thomas Hardy and DHL are the only writers worth reading. I am due to meet EM Forster tonight. The only think I really want to ask him is whether he is a homo. Do you think he cares about rabbits as much as we do? I found the pessimism in your last letter totally inspiring, though I'm sorry you were upset when we last met. I've never been very good at the sex thing. If it's any consolation I was just as bad at it with Patsy.

How lovely to get your letter when I was alone at home. I'm sorry you were so upset about me and Patsy. It's just that I found myself in an embarrassing situation for several years in wch it would have been rude to say no and you wouldn't want Mr Pussy to be rude. Read Lucky Jim. I can't believe Kingsley has got away with it. The dialogue is awful and all the best gags have been lifted straight from me. I doubt he will ever see fit to recompense me. I suppose I shall have to make do with a filthy bottle of Bo-Jo and a pittance from the Spectator. Tried to write another line of Wedding-Wind and failed. I'd be better off listening to The Archers. Don't you think Walter Gabriel would be happier if he killed himself?

I am sorry to hear your mother and father died within a couple of months of one another. Still, it could have been worse. I have had a terrible haddock for a couple of days and the coal man hasn't delivered so I am freezing to death. Count yourself lucky. I do find you quite attractive even though I rarely pay you any attention and am uninterested in the sex thing. You can blame my Mum. Bob Conquest came round; he's basically a cheerful idiot. I can't read another word of Jane Austen or CP Snow. Give me Beatrix Potter any day.

Thank you for your letter. I am sorry to hear you feel I am ignoring you but I have had a great deal to do even though I haven't done any of it because I am so bored. The renovation of the library is almost complete but I doubt anyone will ever use it. I certainly hope not, because then I will be left alone. Don't you think Blake and Byron are quite dreadful? Does anyone care about them any more? The University of Cincinnati offered me 200 guineas a week but I turned it down as it's a long way away and I might have had to do some work.

Thank you for your letter. I am sorry that you inadvertently discovered I had been having a long-term affair with Maev by reading about it in a poem wch I had published in the Spr. To make matters worse I was only paid 3/-. I'm sure Betjeman gets more. Still, I think it might be for the best that it is now out in the open as your Mr Pussy has told Maev it's over. Don't you think Leavis is a frightful old bore? And isn't Pinter a dreadful prick? A CBE at 42. I ask you.

Thank you for your letter. I am sorry you are upset that my affair with Maev hasn't ended after all. It's just she made such a terrible fuss, I felt obliged to go through with the sex thing again. I did, though, spend the whole time thinking about how I could keep your name as small as possible in the acknowledgements for the Oxford Book of English Twentieth Century Verse. I hope that reassures you of my undying affection for my darling graminovore.

Thank you for your letter. I have been extremely unwell and very frightened and all my other friends have deserted me. You can come and live with me now, if you want.

Yours affectionately, Philip

My inner goddess melts … EL Jame's Fifty Shades of Grey. Illustration by Matt Blease

And one that almost certainly won't ...

(At least I hope not.)

Fifty Shades of Grey: EL James

'I've got a cold and I can't interview Christian Grey, the enigmatic multimillionaire tycoon, for the student newspaper today," says Kate, my roommate. "Please take my place, Ana."

Wow! I take one look at Mr Grey and can barely speak. With his tousled hair, he is so mouthwateringly gorgeous. The epitome of male beauty. "G-gosh," I say.

"You seem to be struck dumb, Miss Steele," he wryly observes. "I like that in a woman."

On the way home, my cell phone rings.

"Come to dinner," says Christian.

"How did you know my number?"

"It's my business to know everything. I like to exercise control. My helicopter will pick you up at seven."

I am unable to resist. No man has ever affected me in this way before.

"Here's the contract for our relationship," he says, slipping an oyster down my throat. "I will be the Dominant and you will be the Submissive. You will do everything I say and allow me to cane you, tie you up, sodomise you, clamp your genitals and fist you. In return I will buy you a car and a laptop."

"But Sir," I exclaim, "I'm still a virgin, so I will have to draw the line at fisting."

"You drive a hard bargain, Miss Steele."

My inner goddess melts as he forces his tongue inside me. I have never been this wet before, etc. He bends me over his knee and slaps me hard. It feels wrong, but somehow very right. His enormous penis, etc. Juddering orgasms, etc.

"Sleep with me, Sir," I beg, as I try to draw his handsome body closer to mine.

"I can't. I had a deeply disturbed childhood and S&M relationships are the only ones I can sustain."

"Tell me about your commitment problems."

"They are too disturbing. You will find I am 50 Shades of Grey. Yet I find myself strangely drawn to your virginal, 20-year-old body in a way that I have never previously experienced."

My subconscious tells me I should run away from this control freak right now, but my inner goddess is telling me to stay. That I can help this poor troubled man. Christian changes into a sexy pair of faded denim jeans and leads me to his Red Room of Pain. I willingly allow myself to be chained to a crucifix while he thrashes my clitoris with a leather hunting crop. The pain is intense, but the pleasure more so. My inner goddess is panting for him not to stop until ... juddering climaxes, etc.

"I wouldn't normally allow myself to be treated like this," I say. "But somehow, Christian, it is OK with you as I can sense that one day we may have a loving relationship."

"It is the Submissive who has all the power," he witters, "and I can feel myself slowly yielding to you."

Oh yes please, my inner goddess yells. Does he really love me as much as Kate keeps telling me he does? And why am I so jealous of his previous Subs, and why don't I ask him a single question about his job or his life even though we have met one another's parents in circumstances bordering on the unbelievable?

Submit yourself to the greatest thrashing of your life, my inner goddess says, to prove how much you love him and to let him show how much he loves you. Torn ass cheeks/moist vagina/pain/yet more juddering climaxes, etc.

"I love you, yet I have to go," I sob.

"Why?"

"Because we're only going to get to the bottom of your commitment issues after you've spanked your way through the next two books."