The Observer's resident product placement specialist Simon Doonan is either cracking a bit under the strain of constant culture consumption, or he scribbled this week's piece on a severely over-utilized cocktail napkin. Mr. Doonan has discovered that art and literature are not as concerned with serious, adult things as they used to be. "Literary fiction," he writes, "was always a 'safe space' where mature guys and broads could drink gin and conduct clandestine affairs. Now, however, novels exploring the machinations and crises of adulthood have been replaced by the pointlessly naff chick-lit twitterings of a million vapid Eve Harringtons, all of whom seem to be suffering from a nasty case of high self-esteem." Mr. Doonan then goes on to find literary salvation in, of all writers, Iris Murdoch.

Any of you artistic types feel like silkscreening Mr. Doonan some "FUCK CANDACE BUSHNELL" t-shirts?
Of Muroch, I Write (Not Rupe): Author Inspires Anti-Youth Yowl [NY Observer]