Admiration of artists is a tricky thing. It's hard to separate the artist from his (or her) work — if you've finished reading something that moves you, it's natural to wonder if you and the author might be simpatico. (I for one, have always hoped and been grateful that J.K. Rowling seems like a peach.) But, of course how much it matters is personal; there are those who I admire purely because of their ability, and my appreciation of their work is unrelated — perhaps even in spite of — their personalities and personal lives. The slight (though disputed) stain of antisemitism on H.L. Mencken or Wagner doesn't actually detract from how much I enjoy their work, but it's part and parcel of my experience with it (and lord knows, I love a curmudgeon). When I saw an article in Vanity Fair detailing the late Arthur Miller's denial of his Down syndrome son, I was initially disappointed. Miller, after all, is known as the "moral voice of the American stage," and his deeply held convictions seemed to be dyed into the fabric of his life. How could the man who demanded that "attention be paid," turn his back so completely on his son? However, on second thought, and a second reading of the article, I'm beginning to see what looks like a great failing, as an ultimately human tragedy that extends and intensifies his work. After all, he wrote so beautifully about characters who never saw a pedestal; that moral high mindedness emerged from a deeply grounded and human landscape. That he was part of that humanity is tragic, but not for me. After all, his convictions were strong, but he was a realist — writing in one of his later plays, "Maybe all one can do is hope to end up with the right regrets." Miller's lack of relationship with his son is merely one of those regrets, revealed.