Jeffrey Keeten
asked
Matt Ruff:
Separating the man/woman from their art has been something that many of us have struggled with in recent years. Our heroes are flawed more than we want them to be. I felt like you were pushing back, with this African-American odyssey, against Lovecraft's own issues with race and misogyny. Do you struggle with separating the flaws of Lovecraft with your fascination with his writing?
Matt Ruff
Artists are human beings, and human beings have flaws – sometimes serious ones. I might feel disappointed to learn something awful about a person whose work I admire, but I don’t usually struggle with it, because I don’t see any contradiction in a talented person being wicked or a wicked person being talented, and I don’t think there’s anything inherently immoral about appreciating a work of art created by a bad person. The only case where this would become a significant issue for me is if I were contemplating a friendship or a business relationship with such a person.
Part of what makes this tricky is that when a piece of art moves you, it’s natural to feel as if you *have* entered into a personal relationship with the artist. Shirley Jackson died before I was born, but after so many hours spent reading and rereading her books, she seems like an old friend, the kind of friend you sit up all night talking with. And if you discover that someone you think of in this way has some grievous flaw or has committed a terrible crime, it’s natural to feel betrayed and perhaps even implicated: “Oh my God, what does it say about me that I was friends with this person?” Well, you *weren’t* friends with them; you fantasized a friendship. The struggle here isn’t between art and artist, but between fantasy and reality. My solution for this is to try to stay clear-eyed about the fact that any feelings of intimacy I have towards a stranger are an illusion – a pleasant illusion, but one that shouldn’t be leaned on too heavily.
In Lovecraft’s case, it’s not hard for me to stay clear-eyed. By the time I was mature enough to appreciate his fiction, his racism was also readily apparent to me. Bigotry in fiction isn’t, of itself, a deal-breaker for me; my reaction to it on the page isn’t so much “This is evil” as “This is stupid and boring,” and so the question becomes, is there enough other stuff in the story that’s clever and interesting to be worth putting up with the nonsense. With Lovecraft, the answer – for me – is usually yes. And because I’m also fascinated by the psychology of storytelling – why artists make the choices that they do – knowing what Lovecraft was like in real life, flaws and all, actually enhances the reading experience for me, rather than detracting from it.
Part of what makes this tricky is that when a piece of art moves you, it’s natural to feel as if you *have* entered into a personal relationship with the artist. Shirley Jackson died before I was born, but after so many hours spent reading and rereading her books, she seems like an old friend, the kind of friend you sit up all night talking with. And if you discover that someone you think of in this way has some grievous flaw or has committed a terrible crime, it’s natural to feel betrayed and perhaps even implicated: “Oh my God, what does it say about me that I was friends with this person?” Well, you *weren’t* friends with them; you fantasized a friendship. The struggle here isn’t between art and artist, but between fantasy and reality. My solution for this is to try to stay clear-eyed about the fact that any feelings of intimacy I have towards a stranger are an illusion – a pleasant illusion, but one that shouldn’t be leaned on too heavily.
In Lovecraft’s case, it’s not hard for me to stay clear-eyed. By the time I was mature enough to appreciate his fiction, his racism was also readily apparent to me. Bigotry in fiction isn’t, of itself, a deal-breaker for me; my reaction to it on the page isn’t so much “This is evil” as “This is stupid and boring,” and so the question becomes, is there enough other stuff in the story that’s clever and interesting to be worth putting up with the nonsense. With Lovecraft, the answer – for me – is usually yes. And because I’m also fascinated by the psychology of storytelling – why artists make the choices that they do – knowing what Lovecraft was like in real life, flaws and all, actually enhances the reading experience for me, rather than detracting from it.
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