Just finished Charles Bock's "Beautiful Children", the first fiction book I've read in a while. It was hypnotic, and heartbreaking, and cruel, and utterly, utterly brilliant.
The last paragraph, honestly, to me, rivals the end of The Great Gatsby.
"Each and every one of us moves towards fates we cannot possibly know. Each of us struggles against the pain of the world, even as we are doomed to join it. And for a moment Kenny wavered in his struggle. Slowing, twisting in place, he threw his hands up into the air. To no one in particular, he let out the choked, half whispered plea that would remain at the forefront of his thoughts for years: 'What am I supposed to do?' he asked. 'Just what am I supposed to do now?' "
It's the kind of novel that, as I left work, I was anxious to get home so I could continue reading it. It was terrific. Lovely, disturbing, warm, sad, and gorgeous.