PDF Summary:Monsters, by Claire Dederer

Great art can change your life—but learning about the artist’s sordid past can change how you view their art. So argues memoirist and art critic Claire Dederer in Monsters. Dederer offers an insider’s look at the thorny question: Can we love the art if we loathe the artist? She doesn’t offer easy answers. Instead, she examines how our emotional responses to art are shaped by our knowledge of the artist’s behavior, and what that says about our own morality, identity, and desires.

Our guide to Monsters starts by examining what a monster is; we outline three types of monsters and explore the lives of famous artists in each category. Then, we explain why monstrous artists trouble us. Finally, we explore three ways we can respond to art made by monsters alongside three lessons on humans’ moral complexity. In our commentary, we provide more context on the artists Dederer discusses and other expert perspectives on the nature of art, monstrosity, fandom, and morality.

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Richard Wagner

To explore our perceptions of bigoted artists throughout history, Dederer turns to German composer Richard Wagner. Wagner was a musical genius, but he was also openly antisemitic. In 1850, he wrote a virulent essay condemning Jewish people, and his values were so prized in Nazi Germany that the government used his music as cultural propaganda.

(Shortform note: Wagner is known for writing operas and other musical dramas that pushed artistic boundaries—most famously The Ring Cycle, a four-part epic inspired by German and Norse mythology. His work introduced complex harmonies and leitmotifs—musical themes associated with particular characters or ideas. It also expressed antisemitic German nationalism, which helps explain why he was Adolf Hitler’s favorite musician and why he remains popular with modern neo-Nazis.)

Dederer writes that we often deal with figures like Wagner by excusing their bigoted beliefs and behavior as ignorant. We tell ourselves that people used to think antisemitism (and other prejudices) were well-founded and acceptable—implying that if artists like Wagner were alive today, they’d think differently. However, we can’t apply this thinking to Wagner; Dederer explains that he knew the arguments against antisemitism and chose to double down on his bigoted beliefs.

Further, she argues, this justification is inherently faulty. We like to believe the present is morally superior to the past because if that’s true, then we’re fundamentally incapable of committing the same wrongs. This belief provides comfort, but it’s misleading. It prevents us from recognizing how similar our world still is to the world that produced artists like Wagner—and how easily we might participate in harmful systems or beliefs ourselves. For example, she compares Wagner’s antisemitism to what she sees as Donald Trump’s expressions of racism. She argues that both figures frame their bigoted beliefs as commonsense conclusions most people would own up to if they were honest—and if progressive politics didn’t suppress these conclusions.

Ignorance and Enlightenment

Dederer says that we often excuse historical figures’ bigotry, believing they didn’t know any better. But some philosophers argue that there are two kinds of ignorance that can’t be excused.

First, moral ignorance is a failure of character. It happens when someone knows their beliefs and actions hurt others, but they don’t realize that this makes those beliefs and actions wrong. For example, Adolf Eichmann displayed moral ignorance by helping to orchestrate concentration camps during the Holocaust.

Second, unreasonable ignorance is a failure of inquiry. It happens when someone has access to information that should make them see that they’re wrong, but they avoid, distort, or downplay that counterevidence because it’s inconvenient. As a result, they stay committed to their worldview. This is the kind of ignorance Dederer ascribes to Wagner—he was familiar with arguments against antisemitism but ignored them.

Dederer might argue that unreasonable ignorance also describes our tendency to believe in the present world’s moral superiority. According to Dederer, we have access to evidence that our world isn’t much better than the world that produced Wagner. She points to Trump’s rhetoric about race, which some say helps normalize racist beliefs. Others may point to modern immigrant detention centers, which critics argue resemble Nazi concentration camps. In contrast, some argue that Trump doesn’t promote racism, that his immigration policies are necessary and effective, and that comparisons between Nazi Germany and Trump’s anti-immigration measures are exaggerated.

Unlike Dederer, some say the present is objectively morally superior to the past. For example, Steven Pinker argues in Enlightenment Now that we’ve made improvements to each aspect of human life, from health and happiness to human rights. He attributes this progress to ideals we picked up during the Enlightenment, a historical period when reason, science, and humanism (concern for people’s well-being) became paramount. Therefore, we worry about how bigots’ ignorance could threaten our progress toward a more rational, humane, and just society. This may explain why we think of bigots as monsters.

JK Rowling

To explore how we respond to bigoted artists in the present, Dederer turns to JK Rowling, the author of the Harry Potter series. In recent years, Rowling has received widespread criticism for her statements about transgender people—remarks many view as transphobic. Rowling’s bigotry feels personal and painful for many people because Harry Potter was such a formative part of their childhoods. Furthermore, some of the people who grew up reading Harry Potter are queer or transgender—the books championed themes like love, belonging, and resistance against oppressive systems, which deeply resonated with marginalized readers seeking refuge. Dederer says this makes Rowling’s statements feel like a betrayal to that community.

(Shortform note: Experts note that Rowling encourages some queer readings of Harry Potter. For example, she revealed after the series ended that the character Albus Dumbledore is gay. But while Rowling supports gay rights, she views transgender rights as a threat to women’s safety. Her statements about this put her in the middle of a broader debate about trans people’s inclusion in sex-segregated sports, prisons, and bathrooms. Rowling argues that including trans women in these spaces puts women at risk of violence, which is why she launched a fund in 2025 to support “women’s sex-based rights.” Critics say this view lacks empirical support and reinforces harmful stereotypes that put trans people at risk of violence.)

Unlike historical figures such as Wagner, whose bigotry feels distant, Rowling is alive and continues making public statements about transgender issues. This makes her actions harder to justify—so we rely on public shaming. Dederer connects this impulse to cancel culture and artist boycotts, arguing that these practices allow us to assert our values and create distance from present-day monstrous artists. However, she also questions whether these practices actually address a root problem—why monstrous artists trouble us. They may merely offer us a self-serving sense of moral superiority, much like our response to historical figures like Wagner. We’ll explore both of these possibilities in the next sections.

(Shortform note: Critics argue that public shaming, boycotts, and other features of cancel culture serve a different purpose than the one Dederer describes: censorship. For example, psychologist Gad Saad makes this argument in The Parasitic Mind. He says progressives use cancel culture to punish people who disagree with them by harassing them online and even getting them fired. This undermines what he describes as the natural selection of ideas. In this process, anyone can openly express their viewpoint, and people will adopt the ideas they think are best. As a result, rational ideas thrive while irrational ideas die. Saad says this process is crucial to democracy, so undermining it threatens freedom and progress.)

Why Do Monstrous Artists Trouble Us?

Dederer argues that the cultural conversation about monstrous artists is misframed. We believe that we’re debating whether it’s morally acceptable to consume their work—but actually, we’re more concerned with the emotions their work stirs in us after we’ve learned about their misdeeds. These emotions are complex for two reasons—first, because of the personal nature of our roles as fans, and second, because contemporary politics are highly charged. In this section, we’ll explore each of these reasons in greater detail.

Our Roles as Fans

Dederer argues that our emotional turmoil over monstrous artists stems from two interlocking roles we play in relation to art: the emotional admirer and the ethical consumer. These roles often conflict, which makes it hard to decide what to do with art made by flawed people.

The Emotional Admirer

Dederer explains that when we fall in love with a piece of art, it becomes part of us on a deep, emotional level. It shapes our tastes, memories, and identities. It also helps us form communities. For example, consider Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight books and accompanying movies. At the series’s height, Twilight fans turned these pieces of art into a cultural moment with emotional resonance. They formed teams—Team Edward or Team Jacob—that favored certain characters, attended midnight premieres, wrote fanfiction, and created a shared world of inside jokes and passionate debate. In doing so, they built a strong emotional connection to the art they loved.

(Shortform note: In Poetics, ancient Greek philosopher Aristotle explains why we form such deep emotional connections to art: It’s because stories imitate life—real people, objects, and events. Through this imitation, we see reflections of our own emotions, desires, and experiences, which helps us better understand ourselves and the world. Because of this, art becomes intertwined with our personal and collective identities. Although Aristotle was primarily concerned with tragic plays, his explanation applies to other kinds of art, too, like books and movies—and experts add that visual works of art, like paintings and photographs, move and connect us by telling stories.)

Dederer notes that this emotional entanglement is often intensified by parasocial relationships—the illogical illusion that we know artists intimately, and that they know us in return. This illusion leads us to emotionally invest not only in the art we love, but in the artists who created it. So, when an artist turns out to be a monster, their behavior can feel like a personal betrayal—even if their misconduct or prejudice isn’t evident in their art. Their actions don’t just tarnish their legacy; we worry that consuming their art reflects badly on us, too.

(Shortform note: Parasocial relationships may be illogical, but they’re understandable: If someone’s work speaks to your feelings, it’s easy to assume you share the same worldview. This creates the illusion of mutual understanding. Moreover, experts say, parasocial relationships satisfy our need for belonging. Psychological research suggests that when we feel connected to a public figure—like an author, musician, actor, or social media creator—we experience some of the same emotional benefits we get from real-life relationships.)

The Ethical Consumer

In addition to admiring art, we also consume it, and we want to feel good about ourselves as consumers: We try to make ethical consumption choices because society tells us we have a moral obligation to do so. But, Dederer says, consumers in capitalist societies have little real power to challenge the larger systems that monstrous artists uphold and depend on—more radical, large-scale changes are needed. Still, the pressure to make “ethical” choices remains. The internet compounds this pressure by broadcasting artists’ bad behavior, so you’re always confronted with information you didn’t ask for—and forced to decide what to do with it.

(Shortform note: Critics of capitalism argue there’s no such thing as ethical consumption because everything is produced within systems that exploit people, animals, or the environment. However, some people may use this idea to avoid having to think critically about making the most ethical possible consumption choices. Some choices obviously enable bad behavior—for example, buying chocolate made with child labor puts money in those companies’ pockets, which they can use on more child labor. This is why some activists boycott monstrous artists, and sometimes their efforts succeed to a degree. For example, part of musician Marilyn Manson’s 2025 tour in the UK was canceled after protests over his alleged sexual violence.)

The Conflict Between Emotions and Ethics

Dederer explains that the two roles we play come into conflict when we learn that an artist whose work we love is a monster. We can’t forget what we’ve learned about them, and it changes our relationship with their work: Every time we engage with their art, we’re flooded with opposing feelings. On the positive side, we feel awed by their creativity, and their art brings to mind memories that evoke warmth, nostalgia, or inspiration. On the negative side, we feel disgusted at their actions and guilty for enjoying their work.

Then, to reconcile these conflicting feelings, Dederer writes, we feel like we must make one of two choices: We can continue to engage with their art, pushing aside our discomfort with the artist to focus on the art’s merits. Or, we can reject their art entirely, distancing ourselves from both the artist and the feelings of guilt their work now evokes. Either way, we lose our emotional connection to the art. So, neither option feels fully satisfying—but the internal conflict we experience is so uncomfortable that it seems to demand a resolution anyway.

(Shortform note: Psychologists call this kind of internal conflict cognitive dissonance—the mental discomfort we feel when our beliefs, values, or actions contradict each other. Like Dederer, experts argue that cognitive dissonance is so uncomfortable that we’re motivated to find a resolution, even if the resolution isn’t fully satisfying. We usually do this in one of three ways: by avoiding it (as we do when we reject monstrous artists entirely), by delegitimizing it (as we do when we automatically reject evidence of an artist’s monstrous behavior), or by limiting its impact (as we do when we repress our feelings about the artist so we can focus on the merits of their art).)

Hyperpartisan Politics

Emotions are at the root of our responses to monstrous artists—and Dederer argues that hyperpartisan politics have intensified those emotions. She traces this political scene back to two US developments: the MeToo movement, which brought sexual violence against women into the spotlight, and mass protests against the 2020 police killing of George Floyd, which spurred national discussions about racism. These developments heightened awareness of two forms of injustice: systemic racism and sexism. In turn, they made pursuing justice feel urgent.

Because we want justice, we want to hold monstrous artists—particularly abusive men and bigots—accountable. But, because of the conflict between our emotional attachments to art and the ethical obligations we believe we have as consumers, we struggle to decide whether and how to engage with their art. (Shortform note: Dederer suggests we’re most concerned with abusive men and bigots in this political moment, but we’ve also been scrutinizing abusive women. Consider actor Jennette McCurdy’s memoir I’m Glad My Mom Died, which explores how McCurdy’s mother abused her. The memoir resonated with audiences grappling with how to respond to some mothers’ abuse of their children.)

This struggle is also, in itself, contentious in this political context. Some people believe we should put aside all our feelings about art and evaluate it through an objective lens of aesthetic or technical value. Dederer argues that this is impossible—we all bring our identities, experiences, and emotions to our encounters with art, whether we acknowledge them or not. This is true even for those who think they view art objectively—which is mostly white men, according to Dederer. What they call neutrality, she suggests, is actually just comfort with the status quo. Since they typically don’t experience racism or sexism, they’re not as invested in combating these issues, and they don’t see why they’re relevant to art.

How Politics Shape Our Interpretations of Art

Dederer suggests that heightened awareness of injustice affects how we judge the value of art, and in Mythologies, French philosopher Roland Barthes explains why this happens. He says art has two components: form and concept. Form is the actual object of art, such as a song, painting, or novel. When we perceive form, we attach concepts to it—cultural meanings and associations.

In Ways of Seeing, art critic John Berger explains that concepts are never neutral—we see what our experiences have primed us to see. This explains why political developments can shift someone’s interpretations of art dramatically: They once attached concepts of beauty and brilliance to an artist’s work, but after a political movement shines a light on the artist’s misdeeds, they now attach concepts of violence and oppression to the same work.

Berger also suggests that form itself reflects the artist’s cultural biases—which helps explain changes we’ve seen in artistic portrayals of Black people over time. In early American art, Black people were often completely absent or rendered as servants. This reflected the dominant worldview of white artists at the time, who saw Black people as less-than-human background figures in service to white lives. Contrast this to the street art movement that took place after Floyd’s death: Artists used different techniques to emphasize Black people’s humanity and protest the racial injustice his death came to symbolize.

Some people interpret the political developments Dederer points to differently—they don’t think there’s evidence of widespread injustice. Researchers have investigated how this impacts audience responses to the work of Marilyn Manson, whom several women have accused of abuse. When audience members are dismissive of the MeToo movement, the concepts they attach to Manson’s work don’t change—they still view it just as positively as they did before the accusations. Similarly, people who reject the idea that Floyd’s death was unjust sometimes vandalize or erase street art depicting him. To them, the art doesn’t evoke concepts of racial injustice; it’s an unwelcome imposition of a narrative they don’t accept.

Dederer suggests that when people don’t attach concepts of injustice to art made by abusers and bigots, it’s because they don’t care about injustice—it doesn’t affect them personally, so they don’t see how it’s relevant. This idea comes from feminist standpoint theory, the view that marginalized people have deeper insight into oppressive systems because they experience them directly.

Other cultural critics provide an alternative to Dederer’s explanation. In Cynical Theories, James Lindsay and Helen Pluckrose argue that modern politics make people too concerned about injustice: People believe that if art reflects dominant cultural narratives, it must be morally wrong. On his blog, Lindsay says this leads feminists to see misogyny in video games that depict sex and violence. Because they attach a concept of injustice to this art form, they advocate its censorship and paint its creators as moral monsters deserving of public shame.

How Do We Respond to Monstrous Artists’ Work?

As we’ve discussed, our complicated emotions about monstrous artists make it difficult to know how to engage with their art. We’ve covered a lot of ground so far, so let’s review the two most common solutions to this problem and the problems Dederer points out with each. We’ll also describe the third option Dederer introduces and explore three lessons to keep in mind if you choose to take it.

Three Options

The first option some of us choose is to judge the art by its own merits, stifling our horror at the artist’s behavior. But the emotional repression this approach demands negates part of our connection to the art—the feelings of anger, betrayal, or grief it arouses in us. And Dederer points out that for many people, especially those whose identities or experiences are directly impacted by the artist’s wrongdoing, this kind of detachment isn’t possible or fair to expect.

Second, some of us choose to reject the art entirely. Dederer argues that we do this because we don’t want to support or enable the artist’s bad behavior, but it’s an ineffective strategy. It won’t have much of an impact, if any, on the larger systems that promote that behavior, and it robs us of the sense of meaning and connection the art once provided.

Dederer says there’s a third option: We can continue to engage with the art we love, embrace all our complicated emotions about it, and use those emotions to reflect on the contradictions of human nature. This approach allows us to appreciate the art’s beauty and power without ignoring the artist’s flaws, fostering a more honest and nuanced relationship with the work. (Shortform note: Philosopher Martha Nussbaum argues that by viewing art—and especially literature—in this way, we can use art as a tool for moral growth. She explains that art promotes growth by drawing us into the inner worlds of others, helping us grapple with moral ambiguity, and expanding our capacity for empathy and justice.)

Dederer clarifies that the option someone chooses is up to them—though she leans into the third option herself, there’s no single right way to respond. Also, someone might respond to different monstrous artists in different ways, depending on how their art makes them feel. For example, someone who’s never read a book by Neil Gaiman might feel so horrified by the allegations against Gaiman that they decide never to read any of his books; at the same time, if they’re attached to the work of another controversial artist, they might continue to engage with and appreciate it.

Is Dederer a “Bad Feminist?”

Dederer suggests that we all have the right to decide for ourselves how to engage with art made by monstrous artists, without having to conform to a single moral standard. Some might criticize this view as a kind of choice feminism—the belief that any choice a woman makes is empowering, simply because she made it. Critics of choice feminism argue that it sidesteps women’s moral responsibility to actively resist oppressive systems. For example, they might argue that women should choose to boycott abusive artists—because not doing so helps maintain the power structures that enable abuse in the first place.

However, Dederer isn’t necessarily saying that all choices are equally moral or empowering. Rather, she’s pushing back against what Roxane Gay calls “essential feminism.”

In Bad Feminist, Gay defines essential feminism as the belief that there’s one correct way to be a feminist—by adhering to a specific set of approved behaviors and beliefs. Under essential feminism, supporting art made by a monstrous artist might automatically mark you as a “bad” feminist, regardless of your personal reasoning or emotional reality. Dederer resists this rigidity, arguing that our relationships with art are deeply personal, so we must make personal choices about how to engage with it. In other words, she leaves room for feminist practice to be messy and contradictory, rather than one-size-fits-all.

Three Lessons

As you consider which option to take, Dederer suggests that you keep in mind the three lessons she learned while she did research for Monsters. These lessons are that anyone can be a monster, that some monsters change, and that love is complex. Put together, these lessons help her hold space for complexity, which allows her to stay in relationship with the art she loves. Let’s explore them in more detail now.

Lesson #1: Anyone Can Be a Monster (or a Victim)

The first lesson Dederer discusses comes from Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov’s novel about a man who sexually abuses a young girl. Told from the abuser’s perspective, the novel exposes how predators justify their actions, deny their victims’ humanity, and silence their victims. In the beginning of the novel, the abuser thinks of himself and his victim as unique—as star-crossed lovers in a relationship no one else could possibly understand. But over time, he realizes that his story isn’t exceptional; he’s one of countless abusers relying on the same justifications, and his victim is one of countless victims whose lives rupture in similar ways.

Some readers view Nabokov himself as monstrous for writing from the abuser’s perspective. But Dederer argues that he took this approach not because he was a monster, but because he wanted to show that monstrosity is a disturbingly common human experience. She writes that this understanding helps her appreciate people’s complexity. When we call people monsters, we imply that they’re fundamentally different from the rest of us—inhuman, aberrant, and beyond comprehension. Lolita shows that this isn’t the case. Monstrous behavior often comes from ordinary people, which means anyone is capable of thinking and acting on monstrous thoughts. Similarly, ordinary people can become victims of everyday monstrosity.

Monstrosity in Lolita and in Real Life

Dederer notes that many people think of Lolita as proof of Nabokov’s own monstrosity, but critics suggest it may better reflect monstrosity in American culture. Many US readers have interpreted Lolita as a love story rather than a disturbing portrait of grooming and abuse; others have blamed the titular victim for seducing the narrator. Two film adaptations have amplified these misreadings by romanticizing the relationship and softening, obscuring, or making light of its violence. For his part, Nabokov detested these interpretations; he insisted that his intent was to explore what it means to be a monster.

Further, some believe Nabokov was sexually abused as a child, which might explain his interest in exploring the subject. Some fans say reading Lolita helped them recognize and resist their own sexual abuse, as well as the ubiquity of sexual abuse in American culture. As Dederer points out, the kind of monstrosity Nabokov explores—that of the sexual abuser—is fairly ordinary. Studies confirm that sexual violence is common; one in four women and one in nine men are victimized in their lifetimes. Studies also show that most perpetrators don’t fit the stereotype of an obvious “monster.” Instead, they tend to be people known to the victim, such as friends, family members, coworkers, or intimate partners.

Lesson #2: Some Monsters Change

Dederer learned a second lesson by comparing her life with that of short story writer Raymond Carver. Both she and Carver struggled with alcoholism before confronting their darker behaviors and recovering from their addiction. She explains that in recovery communities, she saw herself as a monster among monsters—she could empathize with other people’s everyday wrongdoing and with their desire to change. This reaffirmed her idea that monstrosity is part of ordinary human nature and taught her that people can grow beyond it. She contrasts this perspective with cancel culture, which often leaves little room for the complexity of personal transformation.

(Shortform note: Carver, who helped revive short stories in the 1970s, didn’t just get sober himself—he helped others do so, too, by sharing his experiences freely. Such sharing is part of most addiction recovery programs; it reduces isolation and shame and promotes accountability, both of which are key to sustained change. Sharing is also part of rehabilitation programs for other kinds of “monsters,” such as abusers and bigoted extremists. These programs are rooted in the perspective Dederer recognized during her recovery from alcoholism—that anyone can grow past their wrongdoing. This impulse is at the heart of the restorative justice movement, which gives offenders a chance to understand, rectify, and grow beyond the harm they’ve done.)

Lesson #3: Love Is Complex

The third lesson Dederer imparts was inspired by Black feminist writer Pearl Cleage’s essay on jazzist Miles Davis, where she describes the pain of learning that Davis—whose music she loved for its beauty and emotional depth—had physically abused women. (Shortform note: Davis was one of the most influential musicians in jazz history. His innovations expanded the boundaries of jazz, influencing rock, funk, and hip-hop, and as a celebrity, he embodied a form of Black masculinity—what experts call a “pimp aesthetic”—that intertwined style with rebellion, romance, and violence. He became a towering cultural figure in Black America.)

Dederer explains that as a Black woman and a survivor of abuse, Cleage wrestled with conflicting desires: to hold Davis accountable and to protect Black men from the kinds of racist narratives that depict them as inherently violent. (Shortform note: In Unbound, “me too” movement leader Tarana Burke expands on this dynamic. She explains that it stems from a history of white women falsely accusing Black men of rape—a practice that, during the Jim Crow era, often led to their incarceration or lynching. This history fostered a protective impulse that persists today, especially for men who make significant contributions to Black culture, such as Miles Davis or R&B artist R. Kelly.)

Ultimately, Cleage never stopped listening to Davis’s music. Her love for him became more complete because, instead of oversimplifying his identity, she could love him for who he truly was—someone who was both immensely talented and deeply flawed. Dederer argues that this complexity mirrors the love we feel for people we know in real life. Many of us have complicated relationships with people who hurt us and who we love anyway. Sometimes we have to remove them from our lives because they make us feel intolerably unsafe. But other times, we decide to keep engaging with them because, despite the pain they’ve caused, they still add something valuable to our lives—just as we might continue to engage with a monstrous artist’s work.

(Shortform note: Mythologist Joseph Campbell (The Hero With a Thousand Faces) makes a similar argument about love, writing that love requires embracing imperfection. According to Campbell, we tend to fall in love with idealized versions of each other; to sustain that love, we must accept the whole person, flaws included. But feminist theorist bell hooks (All About Love) adds that sustaining love requires nurturing one another’s growth. Love can’t flourish when it causes someone harm, according to hooks—so she’d likely agree with Dederer that sometimes the most loving choice is to create distance, whether from a person or from an artist’s work.)