I am slightly embarrassed by my reading list; there’s not a ton of literary value in the books I’ve consumed throughout my life.
Just to give you an idea of how bad it can get, the lowlights include all ten of Hubbard’s Mission Earth books, and as a teenager, swear to God, I paid to read slightly reworded versions of the same fucking David Eddings book ten fucking times. In hardback.
Mostly, though, I lean toward middle-brow, funny, British fantasists like Gaiman, Pratchett, and Douglas Adams. The only thing I’m reading at the moment is Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose, partly because of a general interest in philosophy and religious history, but mainly because I have a completely unreasonable love for the dumbed down 1986 Sean Connery/Christian Slater film adaptation.