...which all obscures the fact that it's so easy to be a social critic. It's like picking on a goldfish in your blender. No finesse or intelligence need necessarily be involved, and if there is, it's all the worse for it, since you should've been doing something better with that effort to begin with. Everything is dumb except what's not. So it is not a sign of brilliance or cleverness that someone can point out an obvious problem. You only think it's clever because it's what you were already thinking yourself, and you like hearing your own distended thoughts from someone else, since it absolves you of all responsibility for thinking them. The social critic is just a vulture who copied your thoughts back to you, because copying them back to you is a quicker way to appear intelligent than coming up with something new, and because shattering someone else's cognitive boundaries is easier than shattering one's own.
Our only solutions involve blowing things up in one form or another, or falsely idealizing a past in which things were also blown up, only less efficiently. The weather; the environment; the interest rates the forsaken charge their central banks; the ways in which the decay of the elephant and the wounds of the manatee are inextricably linked to the latest potential deviant killed by security services. I painted a purple picture of a stained syringe sitting in some rancid rainwater under the broken dumpster across the street, but does that make me a brilliant social commentator or merely an overly verbose photographer? What does the needle say about the decay of our inner cities? Another sanitation worker went missing on the south side, but they changed the records so no one noticed. It really makes you wonder, doesn't it? When will they come for us? Maybe they already have. Maybe the holographic universe split into an infinite number of new possibilities on that dark night last week, and in half of them, that sanitation worker is still alive, and in one of them, he won the lottery. What do you have to do and who do you have to blow to get assigned to one of the ones where you win the lottery, instead of realizing you've never done anything with your life except obeyed?
Voltaire can talk all night, all lifetime, maybe all lifetimes, but it makes no impact. If he found out the Ancien Réboot was having its offspring study his works in exclusive boarding schools, how long would he laugh before he picked up a knife, carved in a permanent smile, and started photoshopping memes about people losing their minds? And would anyone understand them if he did?