Category: Philosophy

The Ethics of Humanisation: Why We Refuse to Look Away

There is a question that follows this memorial everywhere.

It arrives in comments, in emails, in the occasional hostile message from someone who found us through a search engine and didn’t like what they found. It is sometimes asked in good faith, sometimes not. But it deserves a serious answer either way.

The question is this: how dare you humanise Jeffrey Dahmer?

This article is our answer.

What Humanisation Actually Means

Let us be precise about language, because imprecision is where most of this debate goes wrong.

To humanise someone is not to excuse them. It is not to forgive them on behalf of people who were harmed. It is not to celebrate them, defend their actions, minimise their victims, or argue that what they did was anything other than what it was: terrible, real, and irreversible.

To humanise someone is simply to refuse to pretend they were not a person.

Jeffrey Dahmer was a person. He was born. He had a childhood. He had fears and habits and preferences. He suffered. He caused suffering. He died. Every one of those things is true simultaneously, and none of them cancels out the others.

When we say we are humanising Jeffrey Dahmer, we mean we are documenting the full reality of who he was — not the cartoon monster, not the true crime celebrity, not the symbol that has accrued around his name over thirty years. The person. The actual, complicated, damaged, damaging human being who existed in the world.

That is all we mean. It is, we think, enough.

The Criticism, Taken Seriously

The people who object to humanisation are not always wrong to object. Some of their concerns are worth taking seriously.

The most common argument is that humanising perpetrators disrespects victims — that attention and understanding directed toward someone like Jeffrey Dahmer comes at the expense of the people he killed and their families. This is worth sitting with. The victims of Jeffrey Dahmer were real people whose lives were ended violently, whose families carry grief that will never fully resolve. They deserve to be named, remembered, and honoured.

We agree with this completely.

The question is whether understanding Jeffrey Dahmer somehow prevents that. We do not think it does. Grief for victims and understanding of perpetrators are not in competition. They can — and should — coexist.

A second argument holds that humanisation creates dangerous sympathy — that understanding someone leads to excusing them, and excusing them leads to imitating them. This is a serious concern in the context of true crime culture, where parasocial relationships with killers can become genuinely unhealthy. We have seen this ourselves in the communities that surround figures like Jeffrey Dahmer, and we have written about it directly.

But there is a difference between unhealthy obsession and rigorous examination. One looks for permission. The other looks for truth. This memorial is trying to do the latter.

A third argument is philosophical: that some people, through their actions, forfeit their humanity. That Jeffrey Dahmer did things so far outside the bounds of acceptable human behaviour that to call him human is almost a category error.

We understand the impulse behind this argument. We do not accept it. Humanity is not a reward for good behaviour. It is a condition of existence. Jeffrey Dahmer was human in the way that all people are human — not because he deserved it, but because he was born.

Why Understanding Matters

There is a practical argument for humanisation that goes beyond ethics, and it is this: dehumanisation makes us less safe.

When we turn perpetrators into monsters — incomprehensible, alien, categorically different from the rest of us — we stop asking the questions that might prevent the next one. We tell ourselves that what happened was an aberration, a freak of nature, something that could not have been predicted or interrupted. We look away from the warning signs, the failures of family and school and mental health systems, the long slow accumulation of damage that precedes most violence.

Jeffrey Dahmer did not appear from nowhere. He was a child before he was a killer. He passed through institutions — schools, the Army, the justice system — that had opportunities to intervene and did not. He lived in a society that did not know how to reach people like him, partly because people like him had been rendered unthinkable.

Understanding how that happened does not excuse it. It might help prevent it from happening again. That seems worth something.

What This Memorial Is Actually Doing

We want to be direct about what this project is and is not.

This is not fan culture. We are not here because we find Jeffrey Dahmer attractive or exciting. We are not collecting memorabilia or writing fiction that romanticises his crimes. We are not arguing that what he did was acceptable or that his victims deserved what happened to them.

This is a research and documentation project. We are gathering primary sources, examining the historical record, and writing about what we find with as much rigour and honesty as we can manage. We believe that the historical record of Jeffrey Dahmer’s life has been distorted — by sensationalism, by the entertainment industry, by the true crime ecosystem that has grown up around him — and that distortion does no one any good.

We also believe, and will say plainly, that Jeffrey Dahmer’s humanity is not a controversial position. It is simply true. He was a person. Treating him as one is not radical. It is the minimum that honest examination requires.

What Humanisation Costs

We want to close with something that often goes unsaid in this debate.

Humanising Jeffrey Dahmer does not cost victims anything. It does not diminish their suffering or reduce the wrongness of what was done to them. It does not transfer anything away from them toward him.

What it costs is our comfort.

It is more comfortable to believe that people who do terrible things are fundamentally different from the rest of us. It is more comfortable to draw a clean line between the comprehensible and the monstrous, to place Jeffrey Dahmer firmly on the other side of it, and to stop thinking about him as a person.

We understand that comfort. We are choosing not to take it.

Not because it is easy. But because the truth deserves it. And because the people who came after him — the ones who are suffering right now in silence, accumulating damage, moving toward something terrible — deserve a world that is willing to look clearly at how these things happen.

That is why we are here. That is what we are doing.

We think it matters.

jeffreydahmer.memorial is a research and documentation project dedicated to the rigorous, humane examination of Jeffrey Dahmer’s life and the questions it raises. We are not affiliated with any entertainment production, true crime platform, or fan community.

The Thin Line: Jeffrey Dahmer Through the Eyes of Georges Bataille

In 1957, the French philosopher Georges Bataille published a book called Erotism: Death and Sensuality. It was not about serial killers. It was not about crime. It was a philosophical study of the deepest impulses in human nature — the desire for intimacy, the pull of transgression, the relationship between love and death, and the strange territory where the sacred and the forbidden become indistinguishable from each other.

Bataille died in 1962. He never knew Jeffrey Dahmer’s name.

And yet Erotism reads, in places, like a philosophical map of Jeffrey’s inner world — written thirty years before anyone knew that world existed. Not because Bataille was describing a killer, but because he was describing something in human nature that Jeffrey took further than almost anyone ever has. The concepts Bataille spent a lifetime developing — discontinuity, continuity, transgression, the sacred dimension of taboo — illuminate Jeffrey’s own words in a way that no clinical diagnosis ever quite manages.

This article is an attempt to place those two things side by side, with care and with honesty.

The Problem of Discontinuity

Bataille begins Erotism with a philosophical observation so simple it is easy to miss its weight. Every human being, he says, is a discontinuous being. We are each enclosed within ourselves, bounded by skin and bone and the limits of our own consciousness. We are born alone. We die alone. Between any two people there is a gulf — fundamental and unbridgeable — that no amount of communication can fully close.

This discontinuity, Bataille argues, is the source of the deepest human suffering. We long for what he calls continuity — a dissolution of the separate self into something larger, a merging with another being that ends the terrible isolation of individual existence. This longing, he says, is at the root of three things: physical eroticism, emotional love, and religious experience. All three are, at their core, attempts to escape discontinuity. To breach the wall between the self and the other. To touch, however briefly, the continuity that death alone can fully restore.

Now consider what Jeffrey said, in his own words, about why he did what he did.

“It made me feel like they were a permanent part of me.”

“I wanted to keep them with me as long as possible, even if it meant just keeping a part of them.”

“I could completely control a person — a person that I found physically attractive — and keep them with me as long as possible.”

This is not the language of hatred. This is not even, primarily, the language of desire in the conventional sense. This is the language of someone trying — in the most extreme and catastrophic way imaginable — to solve the problem Bataille identified. The problem of discontinuity. The unbearable separateness of being a self.

Jeffrey did not want to destroy. He wanted to fuse. He wanted continuity. He wanted the boundary to disappear. Bataille writes that eroticism is, at its core, the attempt to substitute for individual isolated discontinuity a feeling of profound continuity. Jeffrey’s words are that theory spoken aloud — not as philosophy, but as confession.

The Thin Line Between a Kiss and Cannibalism

Bataille’s most unsettling argument — and the one most directly relevant to Jeffrey — is about what he calls the logic of eroticism pushed to its extreme.

Physical eroticism, he argues, is already a form of violation. The erotic act dissolves the boundaries of the self. It is, at its most fundamental, an attempt to break the separateness of two discontinuous beings — to achieve, however briefly, a state of fusion. He writes that the whole business of eroticism is to destroy the self-contained character of the participants. Nakedness, he says, is the first gesture of this dissolution: the removal of the barriers that maintain discontinuity. What follows is a temporary merging, a momentary continuity, before the boundaries are restored and the two people are separate again.

He then asks: what happens when this logic is pursued without limits?

The Marquis de Sade, Bataille notes, defined murder as the pinnacle of erotic excitement. Bataille does not celebrate this. He analyses it. He says that the destructive element pushed to its logical conclusion does not necessarily take us out of the field of eroticism. That if the drive behind eroticism is the dissolution of the separate self — the achievement of continuity — then death is, in a terrible sense, its ultimate fulfilment. Death is the only truly permanent dissolution of discontinuity. Death makes the bounded self continuous with everything again.

This is the thin line. Between the kiss — which reaches across the discontinuity toward the other — and the extreme that Jeffrey enacted, there is a difference of degree, not of kind. Both are movements toward the same impossible thing. Both are attempts to end the isolation that Bataille says defines human existence. The kiss fails, as all such attempts must fail — the boundary returns, the two people are separate again, the discontinuity is restored. Jeffrey’s attempts failed too, in the same way, which is perhaps why they escalated. Each time the boundary came back. The continuity was lost. The person was gone and Jeffrey was alone again in Cell 213.

De Sade himself wrote: “There is no better way to know death than to link it with some licentious image.” Bataille uses this to illustrate the connection between eroticism and death that most people refuse to look at directly. Jeffrey lived inside that connection. He did not choose it. It was given to him — by what combination of neurology, trauma, and chance we do not fully know — and he could not find his way out of it.

Taboo and Transgression: The Desire Created by the Prohibition

One of Bataille’s most radical arguments is about the relationship between taboos and desire. We tend to think of taboos as simply prohibitions — things we are forbidden from doing. Bataille argues that this misses the essential dynamic. Taboos, he says, do not suppress desire. They create it.

He writes: “A transgression is not the same as a back-to-nature movement; it suspends a taboo without suppressing it. Here lies the mainspring of eroticism and of religion too.”

The taboo and the transgression need each other. The prohibition is what makes the transgression possible, what gives it its weight and its charge. Without the taboo, there is no transgression — only an act. The law is not the enemy of the desire; it is its precondition. The sacred and the forbidden are, for Bataille, the same thing seen from different angles.

He illustrates this with religious cannibalism. In certain archaic practices, he writes, the eating of human flesh is both the most forbidden act and the most sacred. The taboo does not create the taste of the flesh — but it stands as the reason the ritual cannibal consumes it. The prohibition is precisely what makes the act holy. The pious cannibal knows full well that this is forbidden; knowing the taboo to be fundamental, he violates it. The desire and the law are inseparable.

Jeffrey understood this, at some level, without ever having read Bataille. He knew that what he desired was forbidden. He fought it for years — the long years at his grandmother’s house, the Bible reading, the missionaries he sent money to, the genuine attempt at control. The awareness that it was wrong was not separate from the desire. It was part of it. The boundary was not an obstacle. It was, in Bataille’s terms, the very thing that made the desire what it was.

Sacrifice and the Sacred: The Baptism

Bataille draws an extended comparison between the erotic act and sacrifice. In sacrifice, he argues, the victim’s death reveals continuity to the witnesses. The discontinuous being is destroyed and in its place what remains — what the spectators experience in the silence that follows — is the continuity of all existence. Death dissolves the particular back into the universal. The bounded self becomes unbounded. This, Bataille says, is the sacred.

He writes: “A violent death disrupts the creature’s discontinuity; what remains, what the tense onlookers experience in the succeeding silence, is the continuity of all existence with which the victim is now one.”

And then there is this: in May 1994, Jeffrey Dahmer was baptised in a steel tub inside Columbia Correctional Institution by Reverend Roy Ratcliff. He was convicted of seventeen murders. He had been in prison for two years. He would be dead in six months.

Jeffrey had arrived, by the end of his life, at something that Bataille’s framework can help us understand. He had been pursuing continuity through one path his entire adult life — the only path available to the thing in him that needed it. In prison, with Ratcliff visiting weekly, reading the Bible, discussing death and redemption and whether he deserved to continue living, he found another path to the same place. Religious eroticism, in Bataille’s terms, is the pursuit of continuity through the sacred — the dissolution of the self not through physical transgression but through union with something beyond individual existence.

Jeffrey told Ratcliff that he sometimes wondered whether he was sinning against God by continuing to live. He had internalized his own discontinuity as the deepest problem of his existence. The baptism — the immersion, the dissolution, the emergence — was perhaps the first time he had tried to reach continuity in a way that did not destroy another person in the process.

Bataille writes that the paths toward continuity vary. Their object, he says, has a great variety of aspects. Jeffrey had spent his life on one path. In his last year he tried another.

Where Bataille’s Theory Has Limits

It would be dishonest to use Bataille’s framework without acknowledging where it becomes insufficient.

Bataille’s analysis of transgression is ultimately descriptive. He is tracing the logic of certain human impulses — mapping the terrain between the sacred and the forbidden, between desire and death. He is not excusing. He is understanding. And understanding, as this memorial has always argued, is not the same as condoning.

But there is a dimension that Bataille’s theory of transgression does not fully account for, and it is the most important one: consent. Bataille writes about eroticism as a mutual dissolution. The sacrifice, even in its most archaic forms, was performed within a collective ritual framework. The transgression operated within a structure, however violent, that held some meaning for those involved.

Jeffrey’s victims did not choose dissolution. They did not consent to become part of someone else’s search for continuity. They were people with their own discontinuities, their own desires for continuity, their own inner worlds every bit as rich and real as Jeffrey’s. They were not symbolic victims in a ritual. They were Steven, James, Richard, Anthony, Raymond, Edward, Ernest, David, Curtis, Errol, Tony, Konerak, Matt, Jeremiah, Oliver, Joseph — and the first, Steven Hicks, eighteen years old, hitchhiking home from a concert.

Bataille helps us understand the logic of what Jeffrey did — the philosophical structure of the impulse, the deep human need it expressed in its most catastrophic form. He does not, and cannot, make it acceptable. The theory illuminates. It does not absolve.

Why This Matters

The reason to read Jeffrey Dahmer through Bataille is not to aestheticise what he did or to find it philosophically elegant. It is because the alternative — treating Jeffrey as simply monstrous, as categorically other, as something outside the human — is both intellectually dishonest and, ultimately, more dangerous.

Bataille wrote at the beginning of Erotism: “The human spirit is prey to the most astounding impulses. Man goes constantly in fear of himself. His erotic urges terrify him.” He was not writing about serial killers. He was writing about everyone. The impulses Jeffrey enacted at their most extreme — the desire for fusion, the longing for continuity, the relationship between desire and death, the terrible pull of the forbidden — are not alien to human nature. They are human nature, at its edges, in its darkest expression.

Jeffrey himself said it: “I don’t think there was something that happened that made me like this. Because this was always just how I was.” He was not describing a monster. He was describing a person whose inner life had taken a particular shape — one that Bataille’s philosophy, for all its difficulty and discomfort, helps us see more clearly than almost any other framework available to us.

Understanding that is not forgiveness for what was done. But it is the beginning of the kind of comprehension that might, one day, mean that someone like Jeffrey — someone carrying that particular configuration of need and isolation and desire — finds a different path before the irreversible moment arrives.

That seems worth understanding.

Sources: Georges Bataille, Erotism: Death and Sensuality (City Lights Books, 1986, translated Mary Dalwood); Jeffrey Dahmer, Inside Edition interview (1993); Jeffrey Dahmer, Dateline NBC interview with Stone Phillips (1994); Roy Ratcliff, Dark Journey Deep Grace (2011); Brian Masters, The Shrine of Jeffrey Dahmer (1993).

Read George Bataille here:
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