We can see even by the comments of demi-puppets on this blog that what the literary system is producing are not writers so much as functionaries.
Their words and attitudes contain no passion for literature, no faith in its future, no belief in its ability to move people. In their personalities is no sense of adventure, no vision of endless possibilities-- what the writer, if anyone, would be expected to have. There's no feeling for the throb of life or the throb of art; art as a living thing. They live in a rigidly static universe. They might be automatons.
One of them believed that when I spoke about pigeons that was all I meant; so detached from the living world he entirely missed the point.
Ultimately, if they don't believe art can move or change people it's because they're incapable of being moved themselves. Art is merely an occupation to them, the creation of cost-analysts and focus groups, and monolithic institutions; a dead matter; a lifeless ritual which like priests of an outmoded religion they continue to perform without remembering the purpose behind their actions.
I suppose it's a difference between how we view the world. I see it, despite its brutal hardships, as a magical changeable place of adventure where empires can be toppled. I'm not sure what they see. A sheet of metal; a concrete slab? A computer printout? Something inanimate, surely. Nothing which can be engaged.
These are writers? They're writers like so many of their number are writers; which means, they place words on pages and the words are dead, enlivened by no ideas, no vigor, no vision, no imagination, no hope. Writers? They're not writers. They're stale reproductions of writers, Xerox copies, and the original which once had value seems to have been lost.