On Privacy and the Enjoyment of the Literary Arts

When I read a novel written in French over two hundred years ago, the stylistic differences and the contextual foreignness leave no hint in my mind that the author was staring at me. How could they? They scarcely imagined my life, just as I barely glimpse theirs, though I am at an advantage as I can read their preserved words. When I read them, I have the advantage of permanent privacy. The long-dead French writer will never know anything about me, so I can enjoy their words in my own way, keeping what I wish and discarding the rest.

There is no expectation of feedback, of praise, of helping to tell people about this struggling writer and their latest novel. Indeed, they are, in their grave, unmoved by anything I choose to or not do. I can even use the pages of their book as kindling for my fireplace, and it makes zero difference to them.

And for them?

Did they think about me when they wrote? No! Oh, they might have had some vague hope their words might be read by future generations, yes, but me specifically at home in Los Angeles at 1 a.m. in June of 2026? I think not.

How different than when I read the words of someone I know, someone whose newsletter I subscribe to, whose DMs carry our conversations over the past five or ten years, whose anticipation at my feedback on the draft of the upcoming novel they emailed to me as a Microsoft Word document I sense behind every interaction; I am not a private reader and they are not a private writer.

They have expectations of me, and I have expectations of them. We are, in a sense, collaborators in the creation. There, in that dynamic, I feel a kinship and a responsibility to be civil, encouraging, and to cheer their achievement.

This is a burden I can take on with a few writers but not many because it’s difficult and demanding.

It becomes doubly so when the collaboration—I include myself because I share my writings with others—is about literary work that demands emotional acumen.

Understanding a writer—an artist—is often rather difficult because we deal at the edge.

The edge?

The edge of ourselves. The edges of our societies. Sometimes the edges are not the same. One writer’s edge might be beyond my horizon. Likewise, the edge for me might be someplace a reader never wants to encounter. We feel uncomfortable, out of place, and the discomfort makes us not want to continue.

This is why privacy is important where creating and consuming art is concerned. We need to be able to go as far as we wish to go, and stop where we wish to stop.

The creator of the art bids us come but does not compel us, just as we do not compel them to create what they would not, or worse, interdict them from creating what they would.

This is why privacy (and anonymity) matter in the enjoyment of the literary arts.

Written 6 June 2026.