Morceaux choisis.

I read a lot - and no happy endings.

The Book of Illusions, Paul Auster.
"He will give his last dime to a beggar in the street, but will not be motivated by pity or compassion so much as by the poetry of the act in itself."
"No one can live without other people, David. It's just not possible.
Maybe not. But no one's never been me before. Maybe I'm the first one."

Dead causes. Also.

The speed, l'excitation. The wind in my face, the wind I make. Maker of winds.
And the head swinging slightly in the vapors of alcohol.

the other hand, Chris Cleave.
"'Compromise, eh? Isn't it sad, growing up? You start off like Charlie. You start off thinking you can kill all the baddies and save the world. Then you get a little bit older, maybe Little Bee's age, and you realise that some of the world's badness is inside you, that maybe you're part of it. And then you get a little bit older still, and a little bit more comfortable, and you start wondering whether that badness you've seen in you is really that bad at all. You start talking about ten per cent.'
'Maybe that's just developing as a person, Sarah.'
I sighed, and looked out at little Bee.
'Well,' I said, 'maybe this is just a developing world.'"

Revolutionary Road left only one, nagging question : qui est le plus faible, elle ou lui? Et le plus fort? Est-ce que c'est le même?
And Slumdog Millionaire : D. It was written.

Morceaux d'échec.