I've been reading One Hundred Years Of Solitude. It probably shows.

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It was when he went in through the door that he realized that there was no longer good and bad, and that all men were simply no better than those nomadic savages he read about in his childhood - it was just as father once told him. When he experienced the pains of the offhand slight that awaited him on the other side of the door, he remembered the various moments of his life that were mired in insignificance and the pathetic, abject suffering. He desperately sought to rise above it all for a moment, and be like what he remembered his father as.

With his sights firmly set on what he wanted to become, he would later feel that he had survived through it all and come out a better man. Indeed, it was true; and yet, it was his bad luck that most people never noticed this, for all they saw was that he began to dress uncannily like his father. People would attribute his sudden good fortune purely to some unknown power in those regal coats and the exquisite golden ring he inherited. He never paid attention to such stories, but nonetheless made sure that his son tried on his grandfather's coat on the first day of winter. It was a perfect fit, and as he marvelled at how much it suited him, he did feel slightly worried that his son would grow too attached to it.