Climbing Everest

    I read War and Peace when I was fifteen - that's my copy there, all 1450 closely printed pages of it in a Signet edition, puzzlingly labelled "A New American Translation"! It led me on to a Tolstoy phase when I fairly lapped him up, but the book which started that craze was a school prize, although chosen by me. When a friend saw it she was quite incredulous that anyone could read a book of that length and of that subject matter - she stated categorically that she could never tackle it. Fair enough, I was probably a bit of an intense teenager and I certainly always had my head in a book, but I thought nothing of reading it and couldn't see why it might be in any way 'difficult'. I haven't read it since, so maybe it is a kind of Mount Everest of a book, certainly one that requires the vigour of youth or a great deal of time and attention - such as over a long school vacation when you have no responsibilities.
     Are there some books which fall into the Everest class, I wonder: ones you've tried and failed to read, some you'd just never attempt because they are too big or perceived as being too tough, some which you have reserved to be conquered when life permits? Proust is spoken of in these terms, though I've no personal experience of A la Recherche..., and after Dark Puss' recent experience with Mann's Doctor Faustus I'm tempted to put that in this category (DP did make it to the summit but he's still got the frostbite to show for it). However, perhaps all we need to tackle these mighty peaks is the right conditions and a following wind? (Does Proust come with sherpas?)
     At the other end of the scale is the 'gentle stroll' of a book - the pleasant wander on a fine day, nothing too taxing, pure enjoyment. I've just read Tea Time for the Traditionally Built which is firmly in that class of things, (the No. 1 Ladies have man trouble and van trouble!).
     But back to the big stuff: do you have an Everest, or are you quite content  - and why not - to trek in the literary foothills?