The death of literary fiction

I read this interesting article in the spectator (https://www.spectator.co.uk/article/good-riddance-to-literary-fiction/) where Sean Thomas expounds their joy in the fall in popularity of literary fiction. There was a time when the new Ian Mcewan novel was something that was broadcast on television, where being seen reading Jonathan Franzen in a cafe was a mark of pride. However now, people (rightly so) want a story. They don't want to just read pretty meandering sentences. There are of course some notable exceptions. James Joyce managed to get away with it because his sentences were just that good, and people like Cormac Mcarthy and Kazuo Ishiguro have married flowery prose and plot into an excellent book. However, gone are the days where Tom Wolfe or Julian Barnes are the "hotness".

My own opinions are a little muddled on this. I think plot is an important pillar of a book. And for a book to forgoe it, it does so at its own risk; it better be good in other ways. "literary fiction" was always a niche within a niche. Is it "dead"? I look into Granta, and people are still producing the same sparse roomy ironic stuff that we all know and... ahem.... "love". I feel like plot and prose are a little mutually exclusive. What I mean is that if you have a passage where the two main characters are arguing over what they're going to do, this exchange is 100% "plot pleasure". You're invested in the conversation, where the story is leading. However, if you have a sentence dedicated to describing how the man felt like his "shame would outlive him". This is 100% "prose pleasure". Prose is a little more conducive for pondering I feel. There's only so much mental towel-wringing you can do over the story structure of The Da Vinci Code, it feels a little, I dont know... disposable? However, you can continue to think over the ideas and themes in No Country For Old Men for many weeks therefter.

I suppose the argument would be that without a plot, there would be no drive to "love" the book and therefore come back to it. I would say that I've only really read "excellent" literay fiction. The only "mediocre" I've read is Elizabeth Finch by Julian Barnes, which I found aimless and lecture-like, though It wasnt even beautiful, just very, I guess, clever? Martin Amis might be another example of this, stuff always is happening, but it does'nt feel very importnat, but by Jove is it witty, though, I have no desire to return to any of his stuff after reading Money and London Fields.