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The dim lighting illuminated the path in front of me as  I wandered through its hallowed halls.  I proceeded quietly, to the point of dampening every step much as one would while walking in a cathederal.  I was surrounded by knowledge, from ancient philosophers like Plato and Socrates to the great minds of today.  The masterpieces of Dickens and Shakespeare were within my fingertips.  Resting on the dusty oak shelves was a mountain of information so vast that no one man could ever hope to amass it all.  Yet, from the moment that I set foot inside that old public library, I vowed to make that my goal.  As I now approach my fortieth birthday, I have  realized that my time is beginning to run out.

"Done" I exclaim expressionessly as the Tom Clancy lands with a thud against the mountain of books which adorn the west wall of my office.  My next task is to tell the world my opinion of it.  And what did I think of it?  Sure, I guess it was mildly amusing for the first chapter or so, until I figured out the plot midway through the second.  As a book critic, I sometimes feel that I’ve read it all.   The generic mystery, romance, thriller, art book, after you’ve read enough books, it’s all the same.  Since Shakespeare, hell, since the Greeks it’s all been done.

People rely on my words as a source of authority.  I've gained respect in the literary community as being the authority on books of all authors and genres.  The reality is that I sometimes don't even have time to read the books that I'm paid to review.  Most are relegated to a quick skimming of the first couple of chapters followed by a  glance at the end to verify my assumptions.  The dustcovers which used to serve as an introduction to the novel have now become the material on which I base my reviews.

In my old columns I decried the "fast food novel culture" comprised of  the kind of people who just buy the most action-packed bestsellers, or run into a library, grab their order and run out.  Now, the bestseller list that I once condemned I am now responsible for creating.  My reviews are no longer my own opinion, but an abstract reflection of my editor's circulation-obsessed biases and the book publishers who offer the most money in exchange for my rubber stamp of approval.  As a critic, I create the market ; the books that I give positive reviews sell the most copies.  My job is to feed the lemmings, as they flock to find a book that they can read between the commercials on their repulsive sitcoms.

Ethics are meaningless in this business.  If a publisher puts up enough capital, I have no choice but to praise the novel, even if it is the worse example of "litter-ature".  No matter how many wars of principle I have with my editor, my most scathing reviews are at best printed as "a few points of improvement".

These sessions during which I ponder the overall futility of my existence have become more and more frequent over the last few months.  It seems that no matter how hard that I try to bring some originality into my writing, no matter how much I try to enlighten the public, my efforts will either be crushed by my editor as being "too quirky", or my column will be read and discarded without having any effect on the public.  It shouldn't come as a huge surprise to me; after all, the masses always ignore their prophets, only turning to them for guidance when it is too late.  For society, it is too late.  We are infested daily by a never-ending onslaught of media.  Images, pictures, sounds, all of it flashed on the screen and manipulated as quickly as possible in order to compensate for our short attention spans.  The mere act of reading has become antiquated and outdated.  Who knows how long that the book critic will last as a profession, when there are so few people interested in books?

I wonder why I still remain in this business after becoming so jaded.  When you think about it, it seems that I really have no other option.  Sure, I have my B.A, but nowadays I wouldn’t be able to get another job.  I am boxed in, trapped in an neverending whirlwind of political correctness and corporate ass-kissing.  But, as sick as I am of all of this, I literally cannot leave.  What would I do? Flip burgers and try to rationalize with the completely intellectually challenged over why they can’t use an expired coupon?
 
I turn to my computer, and fire up the word processor.  Another blank screen awaits for my fingers to tap across the keyboard, composing yet another condemnation of plot driven fiction that will no doubt be edited and turned into half hearted praise.  It's late in the evening, and even my editor has left the building.  I deposit my thoughts about the novel into the screen, and send it out to the printer.  Walking out towards the print room, I take my article from the laser printer, then leave it in my editor's mailbox.  Then, feeling a strange impulse, I walk back into the print room, and stand before the main printing press.  I find the ink cartridge and unscrew the top.  I look around to ensure that no one is watching, and then I proceed to urinate inside the ink cartridge.  The bodily waste blends with the ink to the point where no one can notice the difference.  Now, no matter how much censoring or cutting that ends up being dictated by the machine of corporate politics,  the ink that is used to print my words will contain the truth.  Yet, just as always, only I will be able to distinguish it.  As for me, the printed page has faded.