[It is 1,457 days until the end of the second Trump presidency.]

I can remember the first time that I fell in love with Neil Gaiman. In 2007, when I was going to London for the first time, the Not-So-Little Drummer boy said “You have to read Neverwhere.” He gave me his copy for the plane.

I can also remember what sentence drove me from “Wow, this is great” to “I think I’m in love”: the protagonist is given a concoction to drink that is described as tasting “of peppermint and cold winter mornings.” Something about that description conjured up an image in my mind — I could almost taste it.

Neverwhere was not actually the first Gaiman novel that I had read. I had previously read American Gods, which I liked but which had not grabbed me in the way that Neverwhere had. It seemed too remote, and I had trouble empathizing with the protagonist.

There were other Gaimans: I read a collection of short stories that included “Snow, Glass, Apples,” which was a telling of the story of Snow White from the perspective of the queen. It’s phenomenal. There was also Good Omens, but I always think of that as a Terry Pratchett novel.

And Stardust. I never read the graphic novel, but I loved the movie. It’s one of my favorites. And I loved Gaiman’s telling of Norse myths; listening to the audiobook of him reading it was delightful.

I have Stardust on DVR. I have been meaning to reread American Gods, but hadn’t gotten around to it. I’m not sure I can now.

All of which is to day that the revelations that Gaiman has been a sexual predator have shocked and saddened me to no end. Art which meant so much to me has been tainted.

I know, I know. A lot of people say you should separate the artist from the art. I can’t do that, at least not with artists that were alive during my lifetime. I don’t think I can read Gaiman’s work without thinking, at the back of my mind, of women he preyed upon. I will find myself looking for evidence, for indications of who he really is, the same way that revelations about Marion Zimmer Bradley’s sexual abuse of minors has made it impossible for me to read The Mists of Avalon, or her Darkover novels without taking what she wrote as proof she is a monster. (For example, in The Mists of Avalon, there is a child rape which is not condemned but described as inevitable.)

It’s hard when people whose work you admire show themselves not merely to be human, but to be terrible humans. J.K. Rowling’s anti-trans statements make it impossible for me to reread the Harry Potter books, even though I own all of them, so rereading them would not make any money for her.

Are there artists who were awful humans whose art I can respect, or even love? I don’t know. Learning more about Paul Gaugin, for example, made me see his paintings of young Tahitian women in a different light. On the other hand, I love Frank Lloyd Wright’s architecture, even though he was not a particularly sterling person.

So I will grieve the wonderful works that I have lost. And remind myself once again of the dangers of putting people on pedestals.