Monsters are tragic beings. They are born too tall, too strong, too heavy. They are not evil by choice. That is their tragedy. They do not attack people because they want to, but because of their size and strength, mankind has no other choice but to defend himself. After several stories such as this, people end up having a kind of affection for the monsters. They end up caring about them.
Flowers find their roots in dead, rotted things, and spilt blood is beautiful. Heartache is broken emotion and raw, ugly deeds and yet we covet the chance to know her. Beauty springs from bruised skin and burning cities. Why may not I, then, learn from that which blossoms in blood? Why may not I imitate the volatile beginnings of some sun kissed, war begotten maid?
In star crossed lovers and bright eyed violets, I hope there is some little part of me remembered.
'You want death?' he hissed. 'I am Death. I will break your neck and cover you with my jar of dirt. When you kill, you become Death and so Death wears a thousand faces, a thousand robes, a thousand gazes.'
Catherynne M. Valente (The Orphan’s Tales: In The Night Garden)