Ego in literature: Flannery O' Connor and Tolstoy

Something I don't like in a book is when I feel that the author has written it to indulge themselves in a way that they shouldn't. I mentioned Tolstoy and O'Connor as examples, as their egos are the ones that stick out the most to me from their writing. I'll not deny that these writers are anything but brilliant. O'Connor looks unwaveringly as the ugliness of life. Her use of the English language is masterful and her writing sharp as a knife. Tolstoy's characters are much more morally gray than hers, some being much more so than others. The stories are so human, and feel entirely accessible years after they were written. And yet I sense an ulterior motive from each author that spoils each one's works for me.

I feel a lot of ego in O' Connor's fiction. Based only on reading her short stories, I feel like she has a pretty high opinion of herself and that if you talked to her she'd be thinking, and insinuating in her discourse, "You chump. You can't handle staring the ugliness of life in the eye like I can." I know she suffered a lot in life. But developing a superiority complex as a result of pain, and condescending to others, isn't something I'd admire in a person. And I really feel this patronizing undercurrent whenever I read her stuff. It feels like she has an ulterior motive of showing off in writing these stories.

As for Tolstoy, it seems like in Anna Karenina, his sort of autobiographical work, that he, like his avatar in the book, is looking for a way to be above reproach as a person. And going off of how he became a rather hypocritical religious guru later in life, it feels like the real need wasn't as much to actually DO good as be VIEWED as good. His anguish over being not good enough, not knowing how to live as a good person, and then the relief that comes when he figures it out, just feels so self-centered to me. Why not think about doing right by your wife and family instead of agonizing over your own salvation? Isn't that what goodness really is, loving others, instead of creating a set of lofty rules to live by so you can feel better about yourself? I really enjoy Tolstoy's writing, and I have compassion for his depression and existential angst. Still, the self-absorption, and the ulterior motive of showing how much he wants to be good, really sours these works for me.

I am perhaps alone in these sentiments about these authors, and maybe some will explain to me why I'm wrong about them. But anyway, what are some authors that you feel an unworthy ulterior motive from as you're reading? Do you feel similarly about Tolstoy and O'Connor?