But then - and don't shoot me for this, but then there is ever so glorious Proust with paragraphs, nay, sentences spanning pages and pages. And Joyce (at his best). Some weave words into things so full of magic, it seems sacrilegious to cut any of it out for the simple joy of escapism. I want to be jealous of my words someday. Every freaking last one of them. :)

But in a larger sense I agree with you entirely. I just thing we ought to be able to make a distinction between too many words thrown out there carelessly or snobbishly and where each was chosen with care and delicacy of an artist. Fiction vs literature debate I guess. And I still enjoy literature.