I stopped reading it. Another 50 pages in, I realized that it was only getting worse and that I couldn’t stand any of these people. I felt like this was the same contemporary fiction book that I have tried to force myself to read before, only to stop with similar feelings of disgust and then return to reading nonfiction only for a while. I think Tolstoy had it wrong for the modern world as when it comes to modern fiction, it seems the unhappy families are all alike. All of the family members in them are selfish jerks.
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