Rage, rage against the dying of the light?

Now I am reading Maybe Esther, by my friend Katya, recently released in English. This morning I was reminded of the irony of reading it while up at the lake, with almost all of my oldest friends (we missed Konanc this year), after writing about the wistful envy she felt when I told her I had such long-lasting and rooted relationships (see here).

After making my way through Knausgaard (still eagerly awaiting Volume 6 in English) and Ferrante, it is hard not to see something in the intense first-personness of all these books, and how compelling it is. It is as if the I of the narrator, attacked from all sides by big data, artificial intelligence, social media, what have you, insists upon itself energetically.  And yes, as an individual myself, it is hard not to root for the I, to believe in the distinctiveness of the individual.

We can only hope that it is not a rear guard effort. Though I guess I must say that I should speak for myself. As if there were anything else I could do.