When I was 17, I read Fyodor Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment, and thought it was the greatest book I had ever read. As a teenager, I was also partial to Herman Hesse and Kurt Vonnegut.
In my twenties, I was an omnivorous reader, with a slight preference for science fiction and thrillers.
In my thirties, mysteries became my favorite form of escape. (Particularly mysteries I had already read.)
By my forties, I had lost my sense of shame, and was happy to indulge in gossipy books.
By age fifty, my favorite reading was the National Enquirer. (The Kitty Kelley oeuvre simply required too much uninterrupted attention.)
Now that I'm addicted to the internet, I can no longer even make it through an entire Enquirer.
The really sad thing is, none of this bothers me in the least.