Years ago, I met a man who wrote spiritual self-help books. He confessed to me that he felt like a fraud because he himself was depressed and unable to follow his own advice. At the time I told him that didn’t mean his book wouldn’t help someone, and now that it was out there it was separate from him, its own entity on its own path. I meant it then, and I still believe that now.
But it’s an interesting question: what is the separation between art and artist? There is no shortage of troubled artists to think about, with a wide range of transgressions. Obviously the level of the transgression is a factor: as much as I loved Why is There Air? as a kid, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to listen to Bill Cosby’s comedy again.
I recently read a book I considered sharing here until I learned more about the author. My enneagram 8 self thought Nope! (in colorful sailor vernacular that I won’t use here.) Is that fair of me? Maybe I should let the book speak for itself. Maybe I should let the book soften my harsh judgment of the author and see that person as the complex and complicated bundle of attributes that we all are. Maybe I should “thou shalt not judge.”
Maybe.