The character is a victim of their novel just as the person is a victim of their circumstance. Which is to say that novels are an instance of circumstance, an instance of stance in which for a second we, the audience see a silhouette standing still, cast away from their flesh and blood source, stuck on one of four closing walls.
Audience hears the grinding of the gears as the person hears the death rattle of a distant relative in a hospital bed. Which is to say inevitability is obvious but no less disturbing because of it - the audiences know what will soon be, crushed characters and cremated cousins, so many words inside heads or on paper swirling out ears and/or back to libraries.
The time for choice has run away and with it there is no fork in the road, no spoon to scoop up and save us or them from the trudge toward...
... the end.
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