So I'm reading this epically long novel called moving on. At the start, I was so endeared to the characters. They were flawed, yes, but they were real and the writing was so honest. Now I'm about 400 pages in and they've all become so unlikable and self centered and dishonest. At this point their lives are these pathetic little parodies of what they could have been. Sadly, I'm drawing all these parrallels to the real world - or maybe not so sadly. I suppose relatability is the point of a good book. I just hope it doesn't end with no meaning.