You’ve heard. I know you’ve heard. And I know what your reaction was — first, surprise… shock, even. Then sadness, and probably anger too. “Please, not again, Goddammit! And not him!” (And if you really haven’t heard, forgive me for being the bearer of bad news.)

Those were my reactions, anyway, when I read about the New York Magazine story that was published early this year (“There is No Safe Word,” by Lila Shapiro; the article may be paywalled), a story that contains appalling, sickeningly detailed accusations from multiple women of thoroughly vile conduct (up to and including outright sexual assault) by Neil Gaiman, one of the most successful and admired writers in contemporary fantasy.

Whatever the results of the inevitable adjudication, civil or criminal, I think it is safe to say that Gaiman (who has naturally denied everything, because that’s what a guilty and an innocent man alike would do) has, at the still relatively young age of sixty-four, entered the “public and professional pariah” stage of his life. This has been confirmed by the panicked corporate scramble to cancel any and all Gaiman-related film, television, and literary projects that were in any stage of discussion or production when the accusations began to surface.

I don’t know the truth about any of these allegations, of course, but given their number and scale and specificity, it’s extremely difficult to believe that the predicament Gaiman finds himself in is merely the result of a “misunderstanding” (his characterization). What I do know is how depressing and disheartening the whole thing is.

The strength of my reaction surprised me because I don’t have a deep relationship with Neil Gaiman’s work. He came to prominence writing the Sandman for DC, but that was in the late 80’s, after I had quit reading comics and before I started up again, so I’ve only read a few of those issues. Beyond that, I’ve read a half a dozen short stories and four of his books — his adult fantasy novels Neverwhere and Stardust, both of which I liked a lot, and his children’s fantasies Coraline and The Graveyard Book, which I liked more than just a lot.

The Graveyard Book (which I read last summer, right before the first cracks began to appear in Gaiman’s reputation) was, I thought, absolutely magnificent — deliciously eerie, bloodcurdlingly frightening, genuinely wise, deeply humane, flawlessly imagined and above all, beautifully written. I had tears in my eyes when I finished it, and I immediately began enthusiastically recommending it to anyone I knew who hadn’t read it. The Gaiman book that most people think is his greatest achievement, American Gods, is one that I’ve never gotten around to, though a copy has been sitting close to the top of my TBR pile for the past few years; I was thinking that maybe I would finally read it this summer.

My feelings about this awful news are based as much on the attractive public persona that Gaiman has so successfully projected as it is on his work itself, of which I’ve read only a fraction. I personally experienced his charm and magnetism at the San Diego Comic-Con once, where he was a guest at the annual Jack Kirby Tribute Panel; I was sitting just a few feet away as he spoke about his regard for the King, and talked movingly about how heartbroken he was for Kirby when he first read the 1970’s Eternals series and reached the point where it became clear that Kirby had, because of Marvel’s editorial interference, just given up on the story and characters he had invested so much in. (It was issue #15, actually.) I thoroughly approved of Gaiman at that moment — we all love it when a smart, successful, famous person echoes thoughts that we’ve had ourselves. (I too had noticed the big change in issue #15.) We’ve probably seen the last of that witty, convivial public figure.

I guess my dismay mostly stems from a feeling that I (and a lot of other people) had, that Neil Gaiman was one of the Good Guys, someone who championed all the right things, someone emblematic of all that’s best about the genre, a big-hearted, generous mentor, a major writer who always took the time to encourage and support other writers everywhere. Certainly no one was ever readier with an appreciative forward or an enthusiastic blurb. I’m not sure which author I’ve read the most of in my life, but I know I’ve read more blurbs by Neil Gaiman than by anyone else, by a couple of orders of magnitude; if I added them all up, they’d probably make a whole book in themselves. (The first thing I read this year, V.E. Schwab’s The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue, came emblazoned with a rapturous Gaiman recommendation. We’ve probably seen the last of those, too.)

This news has sparked so many emotions (always understanding that the real victims here are not paperback readers with hurt feelings) — the shock, sadness, and anger that I mentioned before, along with disappointment and resentment, too, resentment at being reminded of something that I would rather not be reminded of, something that all of us who love books and writers (any art, really) would much rather forget. You know what it is.

Baldly stated, it’s this: there is no necessary connection between a person’s moral character and the quality of his or her art.

In practice, this means that second-rate books (or mediocre music, or uninspired paintings, or worthless films) may very well be the sincere productions of otherwise admirable people, upright, honorable men and women of unshakeable integrity.

Good character, in other words, is no guarantee of talent. We know that and don’t have too much trouble acknowledging it; even if it doesn’t seem altogether fair, it’s something we can live with. There’s an obverse side to the coin, though, and that’s something we’re not nearly so comfortable looking at: a morally bad person may nevertheless be capable of producing great art, and we definitely don’t like that. We feel that it shouldn’t be so, because it somehow seems wrong in a way that the other side of the principle doesn’t. But the paradox is still true, even though we may wish it were otherwise.

We’re happier when the two halves come together neatly, when the artist and the art perfectly mesh, as in the case of Mary Anne Evans, who was, by all accounts, one of the finest people ever, and who wrote (under her pen name George Eliot) what I think is the greatest novel in the English language, Middlemarch, a book that glows with the decency, compassion, and generosity that exemplified its author’s private character. Mary Anne Evans poses us no problems.

Not everyone is Mary Ann Evans, though, and the number of people with very serious marks against their character who have produced great works of art is legion. (Dickens treated his wife abominably, Tolstoy was a monster of selfishness, Caravaggio was a murderer, and don’t even get me started about Roman Polanski.) For that reason, I guess this story shouldn’t have surprised me at all — but I’m glad it did. Though Gaiman may have played us all for suckers with his glowing public persona, I’d rather be a sucker than be so cynical that I couldn’t be shocked and depressed by such revelations. If you’re taken off-guard by something like this, it at least means that you still have faith in people; you don’t automatically expect everyone to be a hypocritical scumbag.

Now that this dreadful news is out, though, I’m stuck with the question — how can I reconcile the Neil Gaiman who could write the wonderful, uplifting, life-affirming Graveyard Book with the Neil Gaiman who could commit the atrocious acts that he is accused of?  How can they be the same person?

I don’t know… but it looks like it may be necessary for me to make room for both the revulsion that I feel towards Neil Gaiman the man, and for the genuine joy and pleasure I received from this strange thing that he was somehow able to separate from himself, The Graveyard Book. I can do it, I guess. I’ll have to.

I’m not sure, though, if now I’ll ever read American Gods; I’m not sure I want to anymore.

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Thomas Parker is a native Southern Californian and a lifelong science fiction, fantasy, and mystery fan. When not corrupting the next generation as a fourth grade teacher, he collects Roger Corman movies, Silver Age comic books, Ace doubles, and despairing looks from his wife. His last article for us was In Dreams: David Lynch: 1946 – 2025