Not intentionally, but telling nontheless. From the Washington Post, an article about styles of argument. Style #9:

The author was a scoundrel. Which doesn’t, of course, mean that he wrote a bad book, but that has never stopped critics hoping to find that elusive philosopher’s stone that connects personal misbehavior with bad art. The best practitioner of this form of mudslinging is the surviving spouse of the scoundrel, who is best able to paint an intimate picture of the beast. After the spouse lays out the ammunition, professional critics step in and “reconsider” the author’s work, looking for evidence of suppressed rage, wife-beating, child abuse and addiction. Then the all-important sleight of hand: connecting personal weakness to artistic weakness. “So is Nietzsche’s philosophy really no more than a coded confession of secret experiences?” asks a recent New York Times review of a book that examines Nietzsche’s supposed homosexuality. The conclusion, at the end, is no, he was human and he had ideas. But the reviewer raises the specter of a damning accusation: that the philosopher is really just a memoirist, dealing not with ideas but with repetitive personal obsessions. Just raising the idea for 800 words is usually enough to be sure some mud sticks.

This squares with my belief that [fill in the name of the writer/ actor/ composer/ whatever] may have been an asshole, but damn I do love the work.
I don’t have to live with him or her. He didn’t abuse me as a child, she didn’t beat me with coathangers. It is of some slight interest that they advocated parboiling children, or wound up dying poor, divorced, syphilitic, and advocating random acts of violence.
It is the work that matters. I’m building a body of work here that people can do what they will with. Someday, I would like to tie it into the other things I do and have done with my life. But right now, what you see is what you get.