The obituaries that followed Philip Roth’s death celebrated the writer’s immense influence on American readers and mourned the passing of “America’s greatest living novelist” and a “colossus” of letters. The few articles that mentioned the misogyny in his writing did so in a throwaway line or two buried in paragraphs of appreciation for his work. Talia Lavin’s piece for Salon came closest to a comprehensive critique of his work when she described his female characters as “adjuncts and objects for the centres of gravity in his books” — the men. But even that criticism was couched within a celebration of his novels, which allowed her to explore her sexuality as an adolescent. His ex-wife Claire Bloom’s memoir, Leaving A Doll’s House, which depicted Roth as controlling and patriarchal, was rarely mentioned.

The merits of Roth’s works have been debated for years. In 2015, Sarah Seltzer wrote that she personally believed “Roth would be a better writer if he paid more attention to female interiority,” but she wouldn’t claim “you’re a bad feminist if you like Roth.” That Roth has a wide readership is undeniable, but as the world moves towards a deeper understanding of the costs of misogyny — both profound and casual, both criminal and subtle — it is worth pondering why summaries of his career didn’t necessarily include thoughtful analyses of the treatment of women in his fiction. At the very least, a small fraction of his influence has been to shape the way people view men as central figures and women as merely peripheral.

Megan Garber, a writer with The Atlantic , used the term “genius-bias” for the media’s tendency to erase or casually underplay the problematic facets of a male writer’s life. When David Foster Wallace died by suicide in 2004, his repeated, violent stalking of the writer Mary Karr, and his treatment of his female students as a dating pool weren’t considered a subject even worth mentioning in his obituaries. When his terrifying obsession with Karr was discussed at all, it was dismissed as an inconvenient chapter in his life that eventually inspired him to write his most famous work, Infinite Jest . His novels were the only metric his fans allowed him to be judged by. This overly protective handling of his legacy had erased Karr’s suffering till she brought it up again in the wake of allegations against Junot Diaz in May 2018. Speaking about book critics who fiercely defended JD Salinger when he was criticised as misogynist in memoirs by family members, Judith Shulevitz wrote that “looking too closely at him has become one of American letters greatest taboos.” Similarly, few remember that Norman Mailer was arrested for stabbing his wife in 1960.

The recent death of writer Tom Wolfe resulted in similar adulation that discounted the criticism he received during his lifetime for unsubstantiated and outrageous claims in his journalism as well as for his often poorly-crafted fiction.

Emma Brockes expressed surprise in The Guardian that the obituaries were kind but observed that “the tone of the coverage was largely affectionate, as people paid tribute not only to him but to the memory of themselves when they read him.”

In many obituaries, it is clear, as Brockes says, that readers and critics are motivated by nostalgia. Wolfe’s works on race were well-received in the ’70s, but it is unlikely that they would meet the more rigorous standards for representation in the present day.

Recently, editor Zoe Bossiere asked, “how much is ‘good’ art actually worth? One woman’s trauma? Two? At what point does the value we place on the literature these men produced absolve them of the hurt they’ve caused?” One of the most common reactions seen on social media after Junot Díaz was accused were readers expressing a sense of personal loss because his writing had meant so much to them. A small fraction of critics pointed out that Díaz’s fiction had been flagged as misogynist before, but it was a criticism that had been lost in a sea of overwhelmingly positive reviews and multiple literary awards. Every review that didn’t notice the hyper-masculinity of Díaz’s male characters had effectively supported the world’s perception of him as a staunch supporter of women. While living writers such as Díaz and Sherman Alexie have received widespread condemnation in light of allegations of misconduct, deceased artists aren’t held to quite the same standards.

Writing about someone after their death is complicated. As I worked recently on the pre-emptive obituary of a famous and problematic writer, I struggled to balance opinion with fact, to push for space in the man’s legacy for his problematic traits. I read that the philosophy of Ann Wroe, the obituaries editor at The Economist , for writing obituaries was that she didn’t want “to write what everyone else thinks of the person. I want what they thought of the world.”

I finally settled for a discussion of the value of his legacy with a recapitulation of the moments where he had let women down with his words and actions. In the 21st-century obituary, there needs to be room to remember people as the sum of their contradictions, as a combination of their best works and their failed efforts.

Urvashi Bahuguna is a writer based in New Delhi

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