“The author is dead.”
This comes from Roland Barthes’ seminal work where he describes the author “dying” with the birth of the text and no longer holding authority over its ultimate meaning. In the practice of literary criticism, this means that the writer submits the meaning of the text to the reader.
Of course, this is a figurative death—authors don’t literally die upon the release of their work; though there are times when we might wish they did.
Such is the case when we are confronted with the ugly truths about creators of beloved stories. Our minds struggle to reconcile the beauty of their work with the moral failings of the person behind it. How can something meaningful and poignant come from someone so vile and reprehensible? This tension reveals an uncomfortable truth: people are capable of astonishing acts of creativity but also equally capable of unimaginable harm.
For people like us who consume great art, we often admire the immense capacity of the artist’s imagination. This too, is what separates us from them. Perhaps it is this same capacity for creating things beyond our imagination that also makes them capable of committing the unimaginable.
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The news of sexual allegations against Neil Gaiman—author of Coraline, The Sandman, Stardust, and The Graveyard Book—was shocking to me and many of my friends. It’s no surprise that many of my friends, avid readers like myself, admire Gaiman’s work. What was surprising, however, was how unaware we all were. These allegations first surfaced in July 2024 through a podcast called Master, yet it took six months—and a New York Magazine cover story—for most fans, myself included, to learn about them. Just half a year ago, we were celebrating the news about the announcement of his projects, unaware of the unsettling truths that would soon come to light.
The New York Magazine article details the disturbing claims made against Gaiman so I will no longer repeat them here. For me what’s more important is to decide what to do next. Now that many of us are aware of what Gaiman’s alleged victims are claiming against him, how do we reckon with this reality?
Do we rid our shelves of our copies of American Gods? Do we flip through the issues of The Sandman to find clues of what abuses Gaiman is capable of? Do we delete our tweets in which we once praised his genius?
We are now tasked to decide how we should separate the art from the artist without separating the artist from the atrocities. But should we?
It’s relatively easier to understand the widespread vitriol directed at those considered ‘perfect perpetrators.’ Figures like Harvey Weinstein, the film producer and head of Miramax, and Jeffrey Epstein, the multimillionaire financier, are easy to hate. Not only were their crimes horrific, but their careers also didn’t depend on public adoration. Their power came from behind-the-scenes influence, not from being likable or beloved by audiences.
But what about figures like Woody Allen and J.K. Rowling? Allen, the filmmaker behind acclaimed works such as Annie Hall and Blue Jasmine, and Rowling, the author of the Harry Potter series, are central to their creations.
It’s easy to separate Weinstein, as influential as he was, from films like Pulp Fiction or Kill Bill because he wasn’t the creative mind behind them. But how do we reconcile our feelings about Allen, Rowling, and now Gaiman? Without them, many transformative works—ones that shaped our identities and values—would not exist.
This makes the invocation of Barthes’ “death of the author” particularly tempting to misconstrue. By declaring the author “dead,” we can justify enjoying their work without guilt. But Barthes’ assertions do not absolve us of moral responsibility—it merely forwards the idea that the meaning of a text is shaped by its readers. The work remains a product of the artist’s mind, shaped by their experiences, beliefs, and flaws.
Perhaps, instead of desperately trying to separate the art from the artist, we should allow our understanding of their failings to inform our critique of their work. Acknowledging the flaws in the creator doesn’t diminish the impact their creations had on our lives—it actually allows us to engage with it more critically.
I support canceling deals and cutting financial support for these individuals, especially when it funds their future work. If boycotting feels like the right step for you, I stand by that too. But there’s no sense in feeling guilty about buying a book or movie ticket in the past when we lacked the full picture. Without genuine remorse or meaningful character growth, these real-life anti-heroes shouldn’t continue to receive resources that enable their careers. Instead, those resources should be directed toward the underdogs—creators who deserve the opportunity to share their work with the world.
The concept of the author’s “death” reminds us that art is not inherently absolved of the creator’s wrongdoings. The characters they wrote are flawed, just as they are. If their work feels tarnished in light of these revelations, that discomfort reflects our principles and conscience. It is a reminder that our values matter more than uncritical enjoyment.
Their works may stand as monuments to their creativity, but they are also gravestones for their careers. Their epitaphs read: herein lies the author, may they never rest in peace.
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