I really agreed with this article, which is so long because the author supports his argument with numerous examples and lots of evidence. And this guy is mostly right.
But the point about the inanity and the incomprehensibility of Annie Proulx and Cormac McCarthy is one that needs to be made. Every time I read one of McCarthy's rare interviews, I'm just astonished by how full of shit he is. I like Nicholas Sparks much better since he took a swing at that bastard.
I tried to read the new surprise Pulitzer winner "Tinkers," by Paul Harding, and I gave up on getting through it because the book has no story and I just hate it. I read an interview where Harding was bitching about the literary agents who rejected him because they prefer stories with car chases to his "slow, contemplative, meditative, quiet book." And I have to wonder why he thinks it's necessary to string together four adjectives that all mean the same thing.
I view Don DeLillo with less hostility, because his observations were probably fresher in the eighties, when "White Noise" was originally published, and because some of these tired ideas seemed pretty on-point when I was nineteen. But maybe impressing nineteen year-olds isn't the gold standard for literature. I'm still impressed by Nabokov and Roth and Bellow.