Vladimir Nabokov referred to editors as “pompous avuncular brutes.”
T.S. Eliot said that many of them were just “failed writers.”
I said to my soul, be still and wait without hope, for hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, for love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith, but the faith and the love are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.