The Death of the Author and the Internet

I've just read The Death of the Author (in translation) for the first time. Granted, I did not read it well. We will continue work on that, I promise. In french, of course.
My first response was that the author has been in some ways reborn with the internet. Anonymity creates a mysterious draw to discover or uncover the person behind the screen. The separation between audience and exhibitor makes the challenge overt. There is no illusion of closeness, like there is in literature.
On tumblr, people collect themselves from the internet. They piece together their personhood from pieces that come flying by. In a sense, they aren't authoring anything except for who they are. There may not be a single original word on their page, their self-description could be song lyrics, but they have created something to display themselves.
People do not read it to find out about the world. They read it to find out about the person. They meet the creator piece by piece, through a translation of the self.
This is really pretentious. But I will keep thinking on it.
In other news, I am desperate to create an artist's collective.