Until about 30 years ago, writers like [Graham] Greene were not at all accessible to the reading public; they did not turn up for signings at bookstores or allow themselves to be pimped by publicists or buttonholed by TV producers who promised fame and better sales. They existed in their work, in their biographical notes and in the usually outdated photos on their book jackets. Invisible, they were the more powerful for seeming forever elsewhere. These writers bewitched the imaginations of those of us who grew up in that period of glamour and solitude, and who wished to be writers ourselves.
Paul Theroux. And this was written before social media kicked in. What major writers today live as someone like Greene did? Cormac McCarthy, Elena Ferrante … the list is short. And I wonder how writers having a constant public presence will affect the quality and character of their writing, over the long haul.