Amy Dunne makes a remark close to the start of Gone Girl that is so scathing and deliberately cruel that you find yourself grinning before you’ve had a chance to process what she’s said. You wouldn’t want to know her. She is cunning, self-centered, and sometimes frightening. Millions of readers, however, were unable to finish the book quickly—possibly because of her, not because of her.
One of the more honest things fiction does to us is that reaction—the guilty pull toward a character you wouldn’t trust for a second in real life. Examining it is uncomfortable. The majority of people would rather think that they support the good ones.
The simplest explanation—that unlikable characters are just more fascinating—is also the least satisfying. There is very little opposition for a protagonist who acts honorably, makes sensible decisions, and treats people fairly. The reader is aware of their general destination. However, an unlikable character can do nearly anything, whether they are motivated by conceit, resentment, obsession, or something more difficult to identify. A certain kind of tension is produced by this unpredictability. They surprise you in a way that a traditionally respectable character hardly ever could, even though you think you know them.
However, narrative surprise isn’t the only thing happening. It turns out that characters who express and act in ways that most people would rather not are appealing to readers. someone who abruptly ends a conversation without saying sorry. The one who admits they don’t particularly like children, or finds funerals boring, or feels satisfied when a rival fails. The majority of people faithfully uphold the taxing performance of civility that society demands. Characters that are unlikable do not. Observing someone completely reject the performance, even—possibly especially—when the outcomes are detrimental, has an almost liberating quality. It’s a particular kind of wish fulfillment that is a little uncomfortable, but it works because it’s safely contained within the pages.
The skill needed to pull it off is what elevates this beyond simple escape. Because the author cannot rely on goodwill, creating a truly compelling unlikable character is far more difficult than creating a likeable one. Every unlikable character needs a logic, an internal world that makes sense and explains why they are the way they are without necessarily offering an explanation. The backstory must be significant. Even when the actions seem monstrous, the motivations must feel genuine. The reader will follow a character almost anywhere if they can comprehend the motivations behind their actions. If they don’t, the character devolves into a straightforward antagonist, which is equally dull.
This was mentioned by Roxane Gay when she wrote that the issue of likeability in literary criticism is fundamentally peculiar, as if reading were a courtship and a character had to win our friendship before gaining our interest. It’s a good provocation. In no way would you have Hannibal Lecter for dinner. It would be awkward for Norman Bates to stay at a motel. Nevertheless, both have endured for decades in the minds of readers and viewers—much longer and more vividly than the majority of traditionally admirable protagonists. The shadows remain. This may indicate something about human memory: we tend to remember things that make us uncomfortable more easily than those that make us feel better.
In conversations about characters that are difficult to like, the issue of vulnerability is also neglected. The best ones have flaws and are challenging on the outside, but there is pain underneath. Fear is concealed by the aggression. Grief is hidden by the coldness. A wound that was never adequately healed is the source of the cruelty. The reader experiences an involuntary reaction when a writer reveals that hidden layer, not to justify the character but simply to expose them. Approval is not necessary for empathy. Even if you fully comprehend someone, you may still believe that they are making poor decisions. What keeps pages turning is that tension, which is maintained by skillful writing.
It’s difficult to ignore the fact that over the past 20 years, the anti-hero has emerged as the most prevalent fictional character in literature, crime fiction, television, and romance. Humbert Humbert, Amy Dunne, Walter White, and Scarlett O’Hara came before them all. The appetite for it never goes away, so the form continues to exist. Readers come back to challenging characters because they represent something real about the spectrum of human behavior, including the aspects that most people choose to keep quiet, rather than because they want to applaud what those characters do.
It’s not necessary for a character to be good. They must be genuine. The most genuine people in the room are sometimes the ones you’d least like to take home, just like in real life.
Chloe Olliver is senior editor at vclib.org, where she leads editorial coverage of literary criticism, political commentary, cultural analysis, and the evolving relationship between literature and public life across New York City and beyond. With a career spanning the intersection of literary journalism, political commentary, and educational publishing, Chloe brings both rigorous research discipline, in-depth knowledge, experience, and an accessible editorial voice to subjects that most readers find thought-provoking and culturally significant.