[Lush]

I wouldn't touch most fantasy. I am prejudiced against it, and frankly, the books I have had the misfortune to pick up over the years gave me nausea. For me, only Tolkien, C.S. Lewis and Robin McKinley became not only bearable, but treasured and beloved. Good yarns they are, but more than that as well, and they touched me on a level that the authors of fluff like: "Andromesion, the High King of Urghuryhan, mounted his noble steed, Tzchöshatchtar, and with a fierce cry galloped toward the enemy-leader Ghardyukhrym, his sword, Dahkfatjj-the Chopper glittering in the sun..." could not reach in their wildest dreams. (P.S., Kalessin, thanks for the laugh! I had to copycat you here!)
And while I'm on my soapbox-what is the deal with the cheap, ugly covers that these books have? It's always some well-endowed Medieval bombshell a là Pamela Anderson with flowing hair and a magical prop (the usuals are cat, wand, sword, crystall ball, precious jewel, magic ring/necklace/crown), or some steroid-junkie on a rearing horse. Ugh! Imagination itself has become underrated.