When speaking or writing about the world of books, it is important to remember that virtually everyone involved in the process is a parasite. Not necessarily virulent, of course, but they are all people who live off the work of the author.

It all begins with the writer, a person who sits down in front of the word processor, typewriter, or notepad and, with nothing but his or her creativity and sweat, creates a place, populates it with characters who spring to life (if the author is good), has them speak realistically, perform actions that are interesting to readers, and moves them or educates them or both.

When the heavy lifting is done and the author writes “The End,” the support team swings into action. The agent sends it to an editor, who frequently suggests revisions. When they are completed to everyone’s satisfaction, the publisher’s various departments take over, designing the book, creating a dust jacket, selecting paper and cover materials, typesetting, printing, shipping, marketing, promoting, advertising, and performing dozens of other functions most readers never think about. Then the booksellers get into the act.

Finally, the most parasitic of all those engaged in the publishing process get their bite of the apple: the reviewers (or, for those who prefer a word that appears to elevate the job to a higher level, the critics). The major difference between writers and reviewers is that writers can, uh, write, and one of their greatest challenges is to be original. Reviewers, on the other hand, either praise or condemn books with the greatest collection of cliches outside of a political convention. Original writing by a reviewer is as rare as a reasonable terrorist.

To be fair, those who write the copy for dust jackets are, almost unimaginably, worse. How often have you seen the phrase “the shocking true story” or “the untold story” on a nonfiction book? For mystery fiction, is it possible any longer for a private eye novel not to be compared with Hammett and Chandler, a spy story not to be compared with le Carre or Ambler, a humorous novel not to be compared with Westlake and Hiaasen, or a legal thriller not to invoke Grisham?

If the publisher fails to draw the comparison, you can count on the reviewer to do it. Or, in a stunning paroxysm of creativity, not content to find a single comparison, he’ll insist that a riveting (no one outside the construction business ever has used the word “riveting” besides a reviewer) thriller with good characters is like “Thomas Harris meets Elmore Leonard.” To make a hyperbolic point about the pace of a novel, he’ll say it’s like “James Ellroy on speed” (as if one could tell the difference). A slight variation might be caffeine-fueled, cocaine-fueled, amphetamine-fueled or any other upper that the reviewer might think of.

Crime fiction reviewers have a set of phrases stored, I believe, in a little packet dispensed on the Internet for $1.95,that should suggest to the careful reader that the reviewer has written a few too many columns and has just flat-out run out of anything new to say.

When you next see any of these in a reviewer’s column, stop reading and wrap a fish in the newspaper:

Dogged investigation
Things are not as they seem
Will stay with you long after the last page is turned
Stunning debut
Maintains his/her usual high standard
Fails to maintain his/her usual high standard
Page-turner
Welcome addition to the genre
Transcends the genre
Wickedly funny (or darkly comic)
I couldn’t put it down

I could go on. Well, yes, I have gone on. But I could list dozens – nay, scores – more. I’ll spare you, since you’re likely to read them soon enough anyway. You’ll recognize them because they will have the ring of familiarity. Okay, lawyers have their jargon, and so do cops, doctors, academics, ballplayers, and just about every other profession. Still, I’ve always thought reviewers and their elevated cousins, critics, should have a higher standard since they are writing about words.

Why do they (that is, why do I) do it? Laziness, sometimes. It’s hard to find a new way to say something. Lack of talent, too. If we could find a new way to say something, maybe we could become real writers.

Trite expressions are a kind of shorthand, too. Cliches become cliches for a reason. They instantly convey a shared understanding. A newspaper column has finite length. This weekly column, for example, is 1,000 words. (It’s supposed to be between 900 and 1,000, but I tend to rattle on a bit and generally use up all the space permitted.)

When a column attempts to put several books in perspective, it doesn’t leave too many words to spend on each. A cliche (the James Bond-like hero) can provide in a brief phrase as much information as a more perfectly crafted description might convey in a lengthy paragraph. The whole point of being a reviewer, it seems to me, is to give readers who might be interested in a book a good idea of what to expect. Many reviewers will only review books to which they can give a positive review. Although I come to books with a certain prejudice, that bias is flagrant and frequently stated.

I won’t waste a lot of space reviewing books that have no chance of being liked by me. The kill-and-shop junk, or those dominated by household pets, for example. Real books, those that attempt to be taken seriously because of style and/or subject matter, deserve careful attention. There isn’t a chance in the world that most reviewers can do them justice with their cliche-ridden prose, but they should try.

I have a long list of words and phrases without which I can happily survive. If they appear in this column, as a careful reader you should spot them. You have my e-mail address. Go ahead! Rap my knuckles. I’ll deserve it.

Mr. Penzler is the proprietor of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan and the series editor of the annual “Best American Mystery Stories.” He can be reached at openzler@nysun.com.