I was sitting in the nosebleeds eating hot dogs and watching Georges St. Pierre win the world title from Matt Hughes. Like never in my wildest dreams if someone would have tapped me on the shoulder and said, 'Hey, seven years from now you're going to be down there doing the same thing' would I have believed them.
What makes art in general, and literature in particular, remarkable, what distinguishes them from life, is precisely that they abhor repetition. In everyday life, you can tell the same joke thrice and, thrice getting a laugh, become the life of the party. In art, though, this sort of conduct is called 'cliche.'
On the whole, books are indeed less finite than ourselves. Even the worst among them outlast their authors - mainly because they occupy a smaller amount of physical space than those who penned them. Often they sit on the shelves absorbing dust long after the writer himself has turned into a handful of dust.