Pretentious, moi?

I started reading this again yesterday. It's making considerably more sense than it did the first time round (18 years ago). It's been called both the worst and best book ever written in the English language. It carries the dubious distinction of being the first (maybe the only) novel to be banned for obscenity before it was published due to a serialisation in an American periodical. It was finally published properly in 1922 in Paris by the grandly named Shakespeare and Company, which I have visited. Imagine Black Books without Bill Bailey and you're there.
I don't read a lot of fiction. In fact the last time was one of the Harry Potters. I doubt I'll be re-reading any of Ms Rowlings' works in eighteen years time.