This sorta feels like all kinds of blasphemy, but here goes:
The Lord of the Rings, by J.R.R. Tolkien
Ahhh, I know, right? But it's true. I read these books around the time the movies were coming out, and was just goddamn obsessed with the whole thing for ages and ages. And now a lot of time has passed and it has been a while and I realized that I am so unattached to my beautiful Alan Lee illustrated boxed set that I am strongly considering selling them for much-needed money. That's where we're at. I dunno what happened, really... I think once the thirteen/fourteen/fifteen-year old obsession faded and I stepped back a bit, I realized I didn't have any desire to reread them, and didn't retain the deep fondness I used to feel. Maybe I just grew out of high fantasy... so full of long, rambling descriptions and deep chunks of history and white dudes. Which is funny because that is all exactly what The Name of the Rose is filled with. But somehow it's different. I still like fantasy, but not as much as I used to, and not in the same way. Lord of the Rings was great for the time in my life that I loved it, but now I need my fantasy darker, grittier, more stimulating and more diverse of cast. Ahahaha good luck with that one, right? Well, that's why I write books.