The act of creation is arduous, the final product often comes at high personal cost to the artist, and the work of art itself is usually spun about some vision of human suffering.

The latter fact speaks for itself. Western storytelling, whether cinematic or literary, usually relates a story of personal, relational, or social struggle. Even those modern writers who dare conclude their tale with a wide-eyed and sentimental ending (and happy endings are anathema to critics—just look at this year’s Oscar nominations for best film), must needs place an account of loss, angst, or tragic error at the core of their work. It seems to be the nature of the narrative beast.

And then there’s the inevitable hard work and sacrifice involved, the fact that crafting a compelling story drains time, energy, and lifeblood away from other vital aspects of one’s personal and social life. You can’t make an omelet without distressing a few chickens.

The question is whether the great work of art is actually worth the great personal price it exacts from the artist and his/her circle.

A good part of American society—particularly folk like myself who make our living discussing and writing about wonderful works of art—would likely guffaw at such a ridiculous question . . . What? Life without Mrs. Dalloway or To the Lighthouse? Who cares if Virginia Woolf’s writings sometimes exacerbated (as well as sometimes ameliorating) her life-threatening depression? And so what if F. Scott Fitzgerald’s fast-paced life and intense writing schedule contributed to his wife’s mental illness and their marriage’s failure? Isn’t a great work of art eternal in a way human life can never be? Isn’t what To the Lighthouse reveals to many a male reader about his insensitivity, or what The Great Gatsby teaches all of us about our tendency towards self-deception, worth the price of a few unhappy lives?

The rest of our consumer culture likewise seems far more interested in the psychological, social, and spiritual benefits of encountering a wonderfully wrought story than we are in how the act of creation itself affects the lives of the artists, their families, and their friends. (Unless, of course, that biographical tale is itself made into a documentary or biopic . . .)

Bennett Miller’s Capote (2005) asks this very question of its audience. Is the critically acclaimed novel Cold Blood worth what it cost Truman Capote to create it?

Truman looks deep into the eyes of a murderer, asks the prisoner to share his tale, and helps to forestall the doomed felon’s execution so that he can hear the man’s story. Though initially motivated solely by a desire to take what he learns and spin a good yarn, Truman finds himself caring enough about his subject that it complicates the completion of his work. He finds it harder and harder to lie to the prisoner about the book-in-progress, and is finally forced by circumstance to make a hard decision. Will the author birth his nascent altruism, put the book aside, and adopt extreme measures in an attempt to save his new acquaintance? Or will he cease interfering with the legal system and allow his friend to die so that he can write his ending and finally be done with this great narrative work which has long-since ceased being a pleasure to create?

Which will he prove himself, pal or parasite?

The answer is self-evident, and so Capote’s own story of artistic triumph becomes a tragedy of epic proportions. Not only has Truman’s increasingly cold manner towards friends like Harper Lee cost him old intimacies and social comforts, but the process of creating this (admittedly amazing and innovative) non-fiction novel costs him his peace of mind. As the film tells it, he completes the book but lives out the rest of his life a broken, increasingly isolated, artistically frustrated man.

But we have his great work, now don’t we?