This week, HarperCollins’ decision to stop publishing David Walliams’ back catalogue brings an uncomfortable question into focus: can we still love a book when the person who wrote it becomes embroiled in scandal?

Walliams is no minor player in children’s literature. Since The Boy in the Dress appeared in 2008, his books have sold more than 60 million copies worldwide. Gangsta Granny, Billionaire Boy and Mr Stink have become fixtures on children’s bookshelves, introducing countless young readers to the pleasure of stories.

And there is plenty to celebrate. Walliams understands the ridiculousness of childhood, the appeal of outrageous characters and the power of a well-timed gag. His stories are fast-paced, accessible and often surprisingly tender. Outsiders find friendship, children outwit adults, and kindness can triumph over cruelty. For reluctant readers, his humour and short chapters can provide a welcome gateway into reading.

But popularity does not make a writer’s work immune from criticism.

Walliams’ books have attracted criticism over their treatment of stereotypes, particularly around gender, disability and appearance. The very caricatures that make his stories comic can also leave readers wondering who is being laughed at, and at whose expense. Children deserve funny books, certainly, but they also deserve stories that challenge prejudice rather than reinforce it.

Now comes the more troubling question of the man behind the books.

HarperCollins first announced in December 2025 that it would no longer publish new Walliams titles, following reports of allegations concerning inappropriate behaviour towards female staff. In September 2026, it confirmed that it would also drop his existing catalogue, with books gradually disappearing from shops and digital platforms. Walliams has strongly denied wrongdoing, saying he was not informed of the allegations or given an opportunity to answer questions. Those denials matter; allegations should not be confused with proven findings.

Nevertheless, publishers have responsibilities to their employees as well as their authors. The decision raises legitimate questions about workplace culture, accountability and the commercial power enjoyed by bestselling names.

It also revives an old debate: should we separate the art from the artist?

We have wrestled with similar dilemmas over J.K. Rowling and her controversial comments about transgender people., with Enid Blyton's whose Noddy books display overt racism, xenophobia and elitism and with Roald Dahl, whose antisemitic remarks and prejudiced views complicate his enduring literary legacy. Can we preserve what is valuable in their work while confronting what is harmful in their attitudes? Or does continued celebration risk excusing the creator?

There is no easy answer. Removing books can feel like erasing stories that genuinely mattered to readers. Keeping them without context can imply that an author's conduct is irrelevant. Perhaps the answer lies somewhere between censorship and unquestioning loyalty: read critically, discuss honestly and remember that publishers must answer for the choices they make.

Walliams’ books will not suddenly lose every laugh, memorable character or childhood memory attached to them. But neither should affection for those books silence difficult questions.

When we hand a child a story, we must ask ourselves, are we simply sharing a world of imagination — or making a statement about the people and values we choose to celebrate?

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