“Monsters”, by Claire Dederer: the uneasy pleasure of loving imperfect art
There are books that do not arrive to settle a debate, but to prevent us from resolving it too quickly. “Monsters: What Do We Do with Great Art by Bad People?”, by Claire Dederer, begins with an uncomfortable question —can we love the work of morally flawed artists?— and turns it into something far more interesting than a verdict: an exploration of pleasure, guilt, beauty and the contradictions of the viewer.
The origin of a shared discomfort
The seed of the book lies in an essay published in 2017 in The Paris Review, at the height of the #MeToo movement. That piece, which quickly went viral, opened a fissure in the contemporary cultural conversation: what do we do with art created by men who have been —or are— morally questionable?
“The seed of the book lies in an essay published in 2017 in The Paris Review, at the height of the #MeToo movement.”
Rather than positioning herself as judge or prosecutor, Dederer writes from a more unstable terrain: that of personal contradiction. She describes her work as an “autobiography of the audience”, and that choice is telling. There is no theory here without lived experience, no criticism without emotional involvement. There is love for art, and discomfort within that love.
Against moral purity
One of the book’s most provocative strengths lies in dismantling the premise of the question itself. Can we separate the work from the artist? For Dederer, the question is a trap. Not because it is irrelevant, but because it oversimplifies an experience that is inherently complex.
The contemporary viewer —that reader, listener or cinephile shaped by the ethical awareness of the 21st century— lives in a constant tension: reluctant to give up what moves them, yet unwilling to ignore the shadows of its creator. Instead of offering a clean resolution, Dederer suggests something more demanding: holding both realities at once. Not cancelling, not absolving, but looking directly.
The shift: when monstrosity changes gender
The second half of the book introduces a shift that is as unexpected as it is necessary. What happens when the “monster” is a woman?
Dederer brings forward figures such as Sylvia Plath, Doris Lessing and Joni Mitchell —artists who, at different moments, were criticised for having left their children. In that act, culturally perceived as one of the greatest female transgressions, she identifies a different form of monstrosity: not one of violence or abuse, but of abandonment.
Here, the essay becomes more intimate, more exposed. As both a mother and a writer, Dederer reflects on the extent to which creation may require a degree of selfishness —or “monstrosity”— that society continues to judge differently depending on gender. It is a shift that deepens the conversation and moves it away from any easy conclusions.
A voice that thinks aloud
Far from an academic tone, “Monsters” unfolds as an ongoing conversation with herself. There are fragments of personal memory, glimpses of life in the Pacific Northwest, echoes of her work as a cultural critic. This confessional texture is precisely what transforms the book into something beyond a traditional essay, bringing it closer to a deeply recognisable reading experience. Dederer doesn’t position herself above the reader; she sits beside them.
The value of not resolving
In a time defined by rapid positioning and categorical opinions, “Monsters” insists on something more complex: the right to inconsistency. There is no definitive theory on what to do with Michael Jackson, nor a universal moral guide for consuming culture.
Perhaps this is where its honesty lies. Ultimately, Dederer suggests that our relationship with art does not automatically make us better or worse people. What it does is force us to think, to feel uncomfortable, to sit with questions that resist final answers.
A necessary, unsettling essay
“Monsters” doesn’t seek to close the debate, but to leave it wide open. That is precisely where its strength lies. It offers neither refuge nor punishment, only an uneasy coexistence with what we love.
Perhaps that is why the book resonates: it does not attempt to make us better readers or better people. Only more aware of what we are doing when we admire something —and of what we are willing to overlook in order to continue doing so.
“Rather than positioning herself as judge, Dederer writes from a more unstable terrain: that of personal contradiction.”
Highly recommended.
(*) Cover illustration by Cathy Lomax.
