What should we do, publicly and privately, with meaningful YA works when their authors behave unacceptably? – Part 2

Ask Alice is an online column written by our former Secretary, Dr Alice Boer-Endacott, who has published several young adult fantasy novels and a non-fiction mini, under ‘A B Endacott’.

Note: This article contains explicit references to authors whose alleged behaviour or expressed views are deeply harmful to others. Please read with caution and care. If you or someone you know has been exposed to domestic, family and sexual violence, you can visit 1800RESPECT. If the material in this column distresses you, please contact Beyond Blue. 

Last month, I tackled the light and easy question: What should we do, publicly and privately, with meaningful YA works when their authors behave unacceptably?

I looked at J K Rowling, Craig Silvey and Neil Gaiman, as their respective scandals have arisen within the last decade and their books are frequently nominated as meaningful for people who read them during their adolescence. 

I drew on an article written article written by my one of my amazing PhD supervisors, Dr Julian Novitz, a follow up conversation with him, and my own research. At the end of the column, my answer to this agonising question was: “well, it depends.” 

It depends on the nature of the author’s transgressions, the individual lines you as a reader may have, and the content of the books. Sadly I ran out of time to explore this last – and very significant – factor. As a result, this month, I’m asking: Do the books in question contain material which reflects, or even endorses, the problematic worldviews and actions of the authors? If they do, should we never read them again? Equally, if they don’t, what should we as readers do? 

As I started writing this column, I realised the subjectivity within this question couldn’t be dismissed. Thus, in addition to the abovementioned approach, I’ve drawn on my reactions to and relationships with the texts and authors to answer this question. 

Let’s start with the ‘what if:’ if these books reflect the author’s worldview, what – if any – is the harm to reading it? 

Are we endorsing that worldview in reading it? Not necessarily. In fact, it’s really important to read about characters we don’t like or ideologies that don’t align with ours. In part, it’s because this helps us define ourselves. As Tim Minchin eloquently pointed out: We often define ourselves in opposition to things. However, reading content that doesn’t naturally fit our worldview helps us better understand other experiences and perspectives. That understanding informs respectful engagement with difference of opinion, as well as empathetic engagement with harmful ideology (one of the only ways shown to actually draw people away from these stances – see section 6.48 of this document). 

However, there’s often a sense that readers might be somehow inculcated into the worldviews and corresponding actions by which we are so horrified. Is that the case? Julian notes in his article, “the idea that reading – and reading fiction in particular – has a formative effect on character is generally well accepted. The books we choose to read are assumed to shape our outlook and identity, or at least reflect our values in some way.” When I asked him to elaborate, he acknowledged, “there’s at least the possibility of harm, in the sense of potentially, or at least partially, maybe even subconsciously internalising the author’s problematic positions or worldviews.”

In some ways, this is supported by my own research (chapter 7 if you’re keen). I determined “reading [offers] a way to experience another’s reality – and consequently consider the possibilities this raises,” and that people read to ‘experience’ a life beyond their own. People can and do view fiction texts as a form of knowledge that can inform their lives and worldviews. For instance, one of my interviewees told me sometimes they think, “‘Oh, I’ve learned that lesson already, but I haven’t personally.’ That’s been because I read it in a book somewhere.” However, importantly, readers don’t just passively accept what they read but compare the text and knowledge it contains against their own lives and judgement. 

So yes, what we read does indeed inform our worldview and actions. However, there are a few caveats that go with this. 

First, this often occurs when the text is affirming something within the reader’s sense of self (LGBTQIA+, experience of having a mental illness, being shy…the list is endless). As such, books provide spaces for people to feel seen, and gives them a conceptual space where they can sit with and explore that identity. Resultantly (and despite what some conservative voices might tell you), reading a book featuring a LGBTQIA+ character isn’t going to ‘turn’ someone gay. What it might do, though, is invite someone who holds bigoted views toward members of the LGBTQIA+ community to re-evaluate those attitudes because of the empathy fostered by ‘sitting’ with a character’s internal world and following their journey in the immersive space of narrative. 

What I hear then is the question as to whether the converse could be true: could reading a book containing bigoted perspectives cultivate those perspectives in a reader who previously did not hold that worldview? 

Well, things get a little murkier, here. The answer is possibly, depending on the book in question. If a character is portrayed as being unfairly victimised or mistreated by, say, a trans person, that could subtly cultivate a negative attitude toward trans people, especially if that resonates with other rhetoric to which they may be exposed. However, the internal monologue of blatant bigotry, such as outright misogyny, homophobia, or transphobia is devoid of nuance or empathy. There’s no real emotional journey for the reader to go on. So while it might reinforce a pre-existing viewpoint, I’d argue narrative fiction leans towards empathy and tolerance rather than bigotry precisely because you must practice empathy to inhabit the world of the book you’re reading. That empathy means you’re inherently more susceptible to understand why someone might be a particular way, or more inclined to see the human in a character, even if you reject their worldview or actions. 

While there are always exceptions to every rule, I’d say in general, reading fiction won’t turn someone into a transphobe, sexist, or domestic abuser. But it might help nudge someone away from the mindsets which inform those worldviews and behaviours. 

Is that as safe a guarantee with younger readers? Julian acknowledged, “probably the risk of this kind of harm is more significant for readers whose perspectives, worldviews are still developing.” However, I argue we often diminish the intellectual agency of young people and young readers. This is supported by something else he said, which also lends weight to my above conclusion: “We’re more likely to adapt, read or view the text in a way that supports our pre-existing positions and values, than have them shaped or shifted. The possibility of insidious infection by a problematic author feels possible but fairly unlikely to me […] Audiences are a bit better at keeping their art/literature/media worlds and their lived realties separate than we’d often like to admit.” 

At the end of the day, then, I’d conclude that it’s ‘safe’ for us to read the work of these authors, even if the texts contain content that reflects or endorses their actions. 

But this is all an academic discussion. I’ve observed that deep and thoughtful engagement with the works of these authors is often missing from this kind of discussion. It’s uncomfortable, but that’s a vital part of informing how we as individual readers – and as people discussing literary works, often with younger readers – approach these texts. So let’s do just that by starting with the big one: Harry Potter. 

In her doctoral thesis, Lili Wikinson notes, “there has been both praise and criticism for the novels’ many (predominantly liberal) political themes.” However, she concludes there is a “conservative implicit ideology – the unconscious, unexamined values and assumptions of the author” that dominate these liberal ideas. 

There are explicitly articulated progressive values within the text – abolishing the rigid caste system of human/non human magical beings, advocating for smart, strong and capable women, and rejecting an ideology of ethnic purity. However, Wilkinson notes, at the end of the series, while the extremes of these ideologies are contained, they and the fundamental inequalities they entrench, remain. Moreover, the texts are marked by an absence of any explicitly gay characters, and limited representation of characters of colour.

Interestingly, Wilkinson argues the messiness of the gap between the articulated and depicted ideology has encouraged a space where readers can insert themselves into the world of the text and – quite literally – write their own stories. This is one of the reasons there is a preponderance (over 600,000 on this site alone) of Harry Potter fan fiction in number as well as theme, written by adolescents and adults alike. Importantly, that puts agency back onto the reader – they can reject the ideology’s problematic expression but embrace the ‘seedling’ idea it represents. 

One of my favourite quotes in the thesis emphasises the importance of giving readers the opportunity to interpret text in their own way. She draws on an academic called Kroeber to say, “storytelling is inherently ideological, subversive and antiauthoritarian, […because] each individual has the opportunity to interpret a story in unauthorised ways.” To me, there’s something delightful about the idea of a reader imagining backstory for a character because there is space in the narrative for them to do so. On a petty level, there’s a delicious resistance to reading characters in ways that would go against Rowling’s worldview; the world of the stories is bigger than her, and she can’t inhabit that relationship between the reader and the work. 

So Harry Potter itself isn’t anti-trans. While its non-representation and non-discussion of trans or LGBT+ characters or themes might be an issue, the books themselves aren’t preaching anything like Rowling’s transphobia. To the extent that there is no LGBTQIA+ representation, sure, we could criticise the series for that, but then you’d have to reject any book which only presents a heteronormative world (which is a lot). This isn’t a series which pushes a harmful ideology. However, reading Harry Potter – a series which is, in many ways, built around the quote “It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities,” while being aware of Rowling’s actions, does present a cognitive dissonance which might be more than one may wish to bear. 

Moreover, with the announcement of the HBO adaption (did we really need this?), I’ve seen commentary which notes that ongoing engagement with the Harry Potter franchise is taken as tacit endorsement of Rowling’s views and actions, while money that comes from engagement with the franchise and goes to Rowling directly funds her – very public, very harmful – actions. It’s a fair point. Ideally, we’d cut off the revenue stream from these works for all such authors. While that’s logistically tricky, I’d argue forever intertwining discussion of these works with discussion of the author’s reprehensible actions is a great consolation prize. Most authors of prominent works have an eye to legacy. This means their legacy is a discussion that can acknowledge the content of their work but never without exploring the concurrent discomfort that comes from knowing what the person behind that work did. 

When it comes to Neil Gaiman, things get more tricky, to my mind. In some ways, this is because Gaiman’s works have profoundly affected me as an author as well as a reader. Moreover, the charges against him have been dropped, which means what lingers is a liminal state of awkwardness and discomfort brought on by the public airing of his BDSM sexual preferences and poor treatment of female sexual partners. 

Thinking about American Gods, one might argue the characterisation of Laura, who cheated on Shadow with his best friend while he was in prison, is the product of a deeply misogynistic worldview. Yet that’s reductive. As this piece points out, in death, Laura not only works to make up for her betrayal of Shadow, but her behaviour rejects stereotypes of idealised femininity. Moreover, the piece notes, the novel is an examination of the “myths that make America,” which include narrow conceptions of femininity. One could argue Laura’s actions in life engage with the myth of the ‘bored housewife,’ which she is able to deconstruct and defy in death. 

Indeed, many pieces (academic and non-academic) have been written on the feminism within Gaiman’s works – including a book literally called Feminism in the Worlds of Neil Gaiman: Essays on the Comics, Poetry and Prose. Yet there are also several articles questioning this, noting that while Gaiman does subvert ‘traditional’ representations of female characters, there is also “a pattern of female characters being tortured, maimed, or murdered in horrific ways to further plot points or male character development.”

However, these tropes are hallmarks of dark fantasy. I’d therefore argue that invites examination of the genre’s tropes and norms rather than focusing heavy critique on one author. Consider the concerning gender norms and dynamics portrayed in romantasy books written by female authors. Dr Elizabeth Little, a member of the LoveOzYA Board, has written about the lack of meaningful consent in books like A Court of Thorns and Roses which “negate the importance of female agency and do not acknowledge unequal power dynamics.” 

Returning specifically to Gaiman, though, there’s merit to examining his work on a book-by-book basis. The Sleeper and the Spindle, a retelling of Snow White and Sleeping Beauty, I read as an empowering subversion of tropes around women in fairytales. Snow, Glass, Apples, another Snow White retelling, might be accused of still adhering to somewhat archaic tropes of feminine beauty and seduction. Yet the ‘twist’ on the fairytale, Snow White as a vampire, takes from established vampiric lore that inextricably intertwines seduction with vampirism. That seduction also nicely plays into critiques of the Prince cheerfully making out with a seeming corpse. 

Maybe we could mount a case against The Ocean at the End of the Lane. Ursula Monkton, the novel’s antagonist, weaponises her sexuality in a way that one could argue fits a pattern across Gaiman’s work of dark-haired temptresses who lead men to ruin. 

But I would never say these above examples are concrete evidence of a problematic ideology that advocates sexual mistreatment of women. Dark Fantasy as a genre is intended to unsettle readers. It is defined as a recognisably fantasy tale which incorporates Horror elements, including serious uncertainty about a positive resolution. There are some representations of women in Gaiman’s works that do give me pause. However, this is complicated because any illustrated work (which a lot of it is) is co-authored by those illustrators, thus adding their own intent to the mix (for example, Colleen Doran adapted Snow, Glass, Apples, acknowledging in the ‘notes’ section of the book her deliberations over “the erotic sections” determined “how far to take the material” in her illustrations). 

What has therefore emerged for me during this deeply tortured introspective trawl across his work, is a question about how deep the roots of misogyny go when it comes to these genres and narratives. I can’t say that a twisted worldview with respect to women and their sexuality doesn’t exist in many of his works. But I can’t conclusively prove it, either. However, in reading his works now and remembering my initial experience reading his works, I am invited to interrogate how women, and their sexual identities, are portrayed. This has made me a more thoughtful reader and author more broadly.  

Julian notes in his article: “It can be fine – or even brave – to be a little curious about terrible people and unconscionable worldviews. We can have unique or different takes on particular red flags. Our knowledge of what is problematic about particular texts and authors may enhance our reading and make new understandings possible.” That’s certainly been the case for me with Gaiman and his works. 

This brings us to the final example, Craig Silvey. I’ve actually not read any of his work. But the reserve I have at the prospect of reading his books now, compared to my relative comfort in returning to Rowling or Gaiman’s work suggest three possibilities: First, the severity of Silvey’s alleged actions of producing, possessing and distributing child exploitation material, is a magnitude worse than the behaviour of the other two. Second, there is a difference between re-reading and coming to works we’ve not previously encountered after disturbing revelations arise about the author. Third, both. 

Jasper Jones has often been studied in Australian classrooms. While I’ve never read or taught it, I spoke with a friend who is a high school English teacher. She said she found teaching it quite harrowing, as each page essentially required a new kind of trigger warning. In an interview, Silvey said “one of my primary areas of consideration was the sloughing of innocence that is growing up,” elaborating “for me, coming of age isn’t learning to be an adult and being more responsible and ticking the boxes of maturity. For me, coming of age is bursting the bubble of childhood and learning and really questioning your place in the world.” Personally, I don’t like coming-of-age stories where the protagonist encounters hardship after hardship which affirm the world is full of prejudice, pettiness, and violence. It’s not an unusual story type, but I feel such narratives posses a thinly veiled didacticism which says children only grow up if they understand the world is a shitty place. If I were to take it a step further, I could argue there’s a subtle sadism that comes from visiting so much misery on a juvenile character. 

Importantly, though, I can’t determine what of my thinking is informed by my knowledge of the charges against Silvey, and what is informed by my general dislike of this kind of story. Here, something Julian said in our conversation feels especially relevant: “We might read a text more sceptically or cautiously, based on what we know of the author and their positions/behaviour.” It’s interesting to me that my reaction here is quite strong – beyond a certain morbid curiosity, I have no desire to read Silvey’s work. 

At the end of all that, I’ve provided no definitive answers. Julian said to me: “for better or worse, I think we tend to see what we look for in fiction. If we enjoy or relate to a narrative then we’re more likely to assume the author and its broader messaging aligns with our values.” That’s true, and it goes some way to why so many readers, myself among them, felt so betrayed by Rowling’s self-outing as a transphobe, and the revelation that Gaiman might not respect women at all. 

However, Julian also noted these works “can still usually be read on its own merits, if we can manage the juggling it takes to set our knowledge of the author aside. [..] I think that contemporary dialogue around fiction tends to get overly invested in the idea of it as a form of self-expression – which it is, of course – but tends to lose focus on the construction, the artifice, the transformations.” He’s absolutely correct. I’d add that while a book is a product of an author’s cognition and experience, a book is also about what a reader experiences while burrowed within its pages. That’s a deeply personal relationship, one ignored by the discourse of ‘you shouldn’t read X work because Y author is a terrible person.’ Works of art have been interpreted in ways far beyond the initial intent of their creator (Antigone for example, was never written as a feminist play, yet is frequently read as such today). While a novel is informed by an author’s life, the author doesn’t have ownership of the experience an individual has when reading their work. 

Where I ultimately land with this thorny question is that it’s up to you, the reader, to decide how you will, or won’t, approach a beloved text authored by someone who has behaved unacceptably. If revelations of an author’s conduct lead you to realise their work contains something of that psychology, it’s up to you as a reader to decide what to do with that. If the work has none of that ideology, but you are nevertheless uncomfortable at the prospect of approaching the work, that’s your decision, too. Importantly though, I think we should not condemn those who elect to still read these texts, or call for a summary erasure of such texts from circulation. 

That’s the thing I love about literature. It’s where nuance lives, inviting us to examine our discomfort, providing solace when we need it, and (hopefully) encouraging discussion and debate that moves us as a collective to a better, more tolerant, more healthy, more robust, place. To do that, though, we need to be comfortable with people reading things which come from an uncomfortable context. But when we do so in this manner, the author’s behaviour is never accepted, never forgotten, and never isolated from whatever of their work may be valuable to readers.