I read a lot.
I've said it before, but it bears repeating.
I'm not talking about technical manuals, lengthy treatise on philosophy, or illuminating biographies written by great men.
I'm talking about the junk food of books.
Fantasy and science fiction.
I started reading novels young, at about fourteen or so. I got hooked on Piers Anthony's early Xanth books, read David Edding's Belgariad series (and then read it again as the Mallorean, Elenium, and Tamuli series). I read Heinlein's young adult books (Door Into Summer, Moon is a Harsh Mistress, Starship Troopers), his adults books (Friday, Methuselah's Children), his later, weirder, books (Farham's Freehold, Number of the Beast, To Sail Beyond the Sunset, etc), and of course, the book that sticks with me most – Stranger in a Strange Land.
I read Glen Cook's gritty mercenary series, The Black Company, and the sillier, yet entertaining Terry Brook's Kingdom for Sale books. I fell in love with Roger Zelazny's world of Amber, amused myself with Hickman and Weis' Dragonlance books, and learned from Mercedes Lackey that homosexuality is easier to deal with if you have a telepathic horse companion. I read early space opera in E.E 'Doc' Smith's Skylark series and later space opera in David Weber's Honor Harrington books. Dan Simmon's Hyperion books captured my imagination for weeks, and David Palmer's Emergence had me thinking in shorthand.
It wasn't /all/ fantasy and science fiction; I found time to read every single Perry Mason book I could get my hands on, each Sherlock Holmes mystery, and the 'man against the world' Destroyer and Executioner series.
I continued to read as I got older. I read the first six or seven of Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series, managed to choke through the entire Goodkind Sword of Truth books, became a fan of George R.R. Martin's Fire and Ice (but my true favorite books are Robin Hobb's Assassin books and Jacqueline Carey's Kushiel novels).
More recent treasures have come in the form of Brandon Sanderson's Mistborn books, Scott Lynch's Lies of Locke Lamora, and Patrick Rothfuss's The Name of the Wind.
I got into urban fantasy with Laurell K Hamilton's Anita Blake books and enjoyed them until the plot became nothing more than excuse for twenty-page interspecial orgies. I read Jim Butcher's Dresden books, and still do.
The point is I read. A lot.
And it becomes harder to find truly good books. I've expanded beyond my junkfood platter, sampling the gothic in Shadow of the Wind, and historic in The Pillar's of the Earth.
I realized how far I've fallen when I paid over ten dollars to pick up an obscure 1989 science-fiction paperback (The Long Run by Daniel Keys Moran) based merely on the words of a brief message board discussion.
But how to describe the pleasure – that simple, yet amazing feeling you get when reading an unexpectedly enticing book? The kind of book that has you devouring the book in small bites, deliberately taking the time to wring the most enjoyment possible out of it.
At least this is one vice I can indulge in with no guilt.