…to thine own self be true.”
– William Shakespeare as Polonius
YOU MUST READ THIS STORY FROM THE NEW YORKER:
Something in me had snapped, was broken beyond repair. My taste had been central to my identity. I’d cultivated it, kept it fed and watered like an exotic flowering plant. Now I realized that what I thought had been an expression of my innermost humanity was nothing but a cloud of life-style signals, available to anyone at the click of a mouse. How had this happened?
I couldn’t understand. There had to be something else. What was a personality if it wasn’t a drop-down menu, a collection of likes and dislikes? Who was I without my private pressings, my limited editions, my vintage one-offs? How could I signal to potential allies across the vast black reaches of interpersonal space?