It will continue, of course. Because I'm right, dammit.
I wrote an overlong and mercifully unpublished novel in 1983 (The Book of Years, by Daniel), long before the meme of shaking one's fist at the clouds was common. The main character angrily flings a stone pointlessly into the sky near the end of the book because of the deep unfairness he thinks God has visited upon him. He throws out his shoulder doing so, which turned out to be prophetic for a character I identify with strongly*. Yet clearly, even when I was only 30 years old I understood that mood entirely.
*I identify strongly with all my characters, which is a strength and weakness in writing. One of my few readers asked "Is Daniel really you?" All the characters were me. Elizabeth. Melanie. Both James and Lisa. Even unbalanced and difficult characters were people I inhabited for a time. Perhaps I understand Charles Williams's coinherence better than I thought just a month ago,