Can We Like People Who’ve Done Bad Things?

The discomfort of not knowing what to feel

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You do not look with your eyes, you look with your soul.
— M.Z.Bradley, The Mists of Avalon

When I was in my late teens, a friend lent me a book called The Mists of Avalon. The book is a retelling of the Arthurian legend, but through the eyes of the women: Morgaine, Gwenhwyfar, and others who are usually left at the edges. This was unlike anything I’d read until then, and it left a deep impression on me.

I became fascinated by it!

Not long ago I decided to revisit it, over twenty years later. Would I still love it? Would I still find the women as compelling?

Before purchasing the series (it’s four volumes), I browsed the internet to see what readers say about it. Do they love it as much as I did/do?

To my horror, my search didn’t lead me to readers’ analysis or opinions. Instead, it brought up the horrific crimes the book’s author, Marion Zimmer Bradley, and her husband had committed against children; including her own daughter, who around ten years ago, spoke publicly about the abuse.

There has been a lot written about whether it’s possible to separate the art from the artist or the creation from the creator. This is undoubtedly a well-trodden debate. Especially when it comes to paintings, films, or music created by people who have caused real harm.

But this not what I want to explore here, as I wish to discuss something broader: Can we like people who have done bad things (in general)?

Liking in Spite of It All

Can we like bullies, cheaters, compulsive liars, people who steal, people who act with dishonesty?

See, liking someone is not the same as morally approving of them. Psychology has long shown, most notably through studies on the mere exposure effect, that our preferences and affinities are shaped by familiarity, tone, timing, and association [1]. None of which require moral vetting. A person can be perceived as engaging, insightful, or warm, even when their behaviour falls short of ethical standards.

In this sense, liking, is not a declaration of values. It’s an emotional response that often precedes critical judgement. This might help explain why some people continue to support public figures or political leaders whose values or actions they would normally reject.

Familiarity tends to generate a sense of safety. When someone’s presence, voice, or ideas become known to us, we are more likely to feel ease in their company or with their image. The brain is built to favour what feels predictable, even if that predictability is ethically complicated.

The Central Question

This can make it harder to recalibrate once new information comes to light. For example, a person we once experienced as admirable, someone we know personally, worked with, or looked up to, may suddenly appear more difficult to place. Yet the earlier impression does not simply vanish. I’ve faced this tension myself, and it’s not as straightforward as it seems from the outside.

But the central question I raise here becomes difficult to answer because we expect moral coherence across the board. If someone behaves badly, we assume that any trace of positive regard should be withdrawn. But human character is rarely so consistent. A person may act with dishonesty while also being generous.

Moral Contradictions

During the COVID-19 pandemic, I remember reading an article about drug lords in shanty towns taking care of their communities, stepping in where politicians had failed.

Among other things, they ensured that elderly residents had access to transportation so they could get to vaccination centres. These were drug lords, people who murder for power and money, ensuring their elderly had a chance to live. These contradictions do not cancel each other out. They coexist, and they unsettle the moral narratives we’ve learnt.

Understanding behaviour does not necessarily resolve this discomfort either. It’s tempting to reach for explanations such as upbringing, poverty, or social systems as a way to make wrongdoing more digestible. But explanation is not exoneration. Even when certain behaviours are contextualised, it remains morally troubling.

That’s why the discomfort that follows is often treated as a problem to solve. But what if the discomfort is something for us just to notice instead? Not long ago, during a congress, I learnt that a former supervisor of mine ( a person I indirectly referred to earlier), someone I admire, is a vicious bully. So, can I still like her? Is this a tension that demands resolution, or is it one of those situations in life that calls us to tolerate ambiguity and hold different realities at the same time?

On that same thought, I still haven’t decided whether I will read the The Mists of Avalon again. Part of me wants to revisit the characters I once loved. Another part hesitates, wondering whether reading it now, knowing what I know, is wrong.

Ambiguity as The Condition

We often long for moral clarity. It feels easier to place people in fixed categories, to know where we stand. But human lives rarely cooperate with that kind of order. As Simone de Beauvoir wrote, ambiguity is not a flaw in the human condition, it is the condition. The feelings that linger, even after we know something troubling, don’t always have a place to go. They stay with us, sometimes subdued, sometimes closer to the surface.

So, I wonder if the task is not to solve the contradiction, but to live with it consciously.

What do you think?

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Reference List:
[1] Zajonc, R. B. (1968). Attitudinal effects of mere exposure. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 9(2), 1–27. https://doi.org/10.1037/h0025848