I've read a whole lot of books this year, I'll give the list of most of the non-fiction with my "scores" and choose a few I absolutely recommend:

L'étrange défaite, Marc Bloch, 5/5

Historiae,Quintus Curtius Rufus, 4/5

The Blitzkrieg Legend, Karl-Heinz Frieser, 4.5/5

La vérité sur l'affaire Pétain, Henri Guillemin, 4/5

Far Travelers, the exploring machines, Oran W. Nicks, 4/5

The name above the title, Frank Capra, 5.5/5 (yes)

Robespierre et la république sociale, ALbert Mathiez, 3/5

Digital Apollo, David A. Mindell, 2,5/5

Le loup dans la bergerie, Jean-Claude Michéa, 5/5

The Tender Carnivore, Paul Shepard, 4/5

Scènes de la vie intellectuelle en France, André Perrin, 4/5

Adults in the Room, Yanis Varoufakis, 5.5/5 (really)

Love's Executioner, Irvin Yalom, 5/5

OK, so out of these some are for pure space geeks; some are for political radicals that know French; some are for war and history geeks; some for economy geeks (I happen to be all of these). Which would I absolutely recommend?

1° Frank Capra's autobiography. It's astounding, it's gripping, it's moving, it's suspenseful, it's as wonderful as the great Capra movies and it's true (you'll believe it to the last word). Check for yourself:

I was coming downstairs from Admiral "Bull" Halsey's office. I would have to pass right by Admiral Nimitz. Was he waiting for me? Would be renege on the all-important Special Film Coverage directive I had written for him, and he had signed? Had MacArthur nixed the order to integrate all combat photography? Had the the Air Force? The Marines?
I hesitated, then saluted, and walked by him.

"Oh, Capra! Can you spare a moment?"

I went limp. "Of course, Admiral."

Behind his desk, his back to me he faced a window that looked out over our sunken warships. "Sit down, please," he said, huskily. "I apologize for alling you in here. It"s just this --this --goddam sonofabitch of a _war_!".
His hands clasped and unclasped behind him as he rocked slowly back and forth on his heels. Then, out of the depths of an overwhelming hurt, he cried out: "They cheered me... Three thousand of them... Eighteen-year-olds... Legs gone, faces gone... They cheered me... I sent them there .... They cheered me....".

Then he turned, sat heavily on his chair, and with tears streaming down his face, he beat the table with both fists: "GODDAM SONOFABITCH OF A WAR! GODDAM SONOFABITCH OF A WAR! What am I going to write to their parents? What can _anybody_ write to their parents?..." He grabbed his wet face in both his hands. He was sobbing now. A father weeping for all the sons in the world. "Eighteen-year-olds... kids... boys... three thousand of them... They cheered me... I sent them there... they cheered me... GODDAM SONOFABITCH OF A WAR! goddam sonofa--" His handkerchief was out now. Not once had he looked at me, directly.

I sat as if transfixed. Tears had started down my cheeks. The white-thatched adminral blew his nose, composed himself, then looking at me with a shy little smile, he said pleasantly: "Thank you, Capra, Thank you."

He had wanted to share his great pain with another human being -- someone that was not Navy. I rose to my feet, try to mumble something. I couldn't. So I smiled back and walked out. I had witnessed something rare. Something awesome -- the inside of a tormented human soul.

2° Varoufakis' "Adults in the Room". If you have the slightest interest in politics, power, economy, negociation, struggle, go read it. It's gripping like a detective story, it's suspenseful, it's incredibly intelligent and insightful; reading this I grew a profound respect for Y. Varoufakis and it changed a lot of my views on a lot of things about the EU, the Euro, the power relationships in Europe, etc.
quote:

Benoît and I had resumed our whispered conversation when suddenly I heard shouting. Benoît looked concerned.

'What happened?' I asked him. Concentrating sa I had been on my discussion with Benoît, I had failed to notice the drama unfolding behind me.

'Michel shouted at Wolfgang,' he replied.

'Why?' I had been aware only of raised voices, whereas Benoît, who was facing me, had seen everything and might also have actually heard what was said.

'Because Wofgang said that he wants the troika in Paris,' said Benoît with a bitter grin.

It all made perfect sense. The troika that had been born and raised in Athens was now Paris-bound because its ultimate mission was to control the French national budget. The harsh ahd failed policies imposed upon Greece had nothing to do with our country. The threat to close down Greece's banks that Benoît had been relaying to me at the very moment Michel yelled at Wolfgang had nothing to do with our banks. They were Wolfgang's signal to Paris: if France wanted the Euro, it must forfeit sovereignty over its budget deficits.

Some of these texts are available online (partial or complete).