I enjoyed the first couple, but the series seems to be getting a little long in the tooth. The Apocalypse Codex was ok, but by The Rhesus Chart I was starting to get bored.

I've begun re-reading (although I didn't finish last time) Steppenwolf, and the degree to which I relate to Harry Haller is a little frightening. I broke down and bought The Folio Society's edition, which uses a better translation than the one I had been reading, and of course is beautifully put together.

It's a fine thing, this contentment, this painlessness, these tolerable days when you keep your head down, when neither pain nor desire dare to raise their voices, when you do everything at a whisper, stealing around on the tips of your toes. But my problem, sad to say, is that precisely this kind of contentment doesn't agree with me. After a short spell, finding it insufferably detestable and sickening, I have to seek refuge in other climes, possibly by resorting to sensual pleasures, but if necessary even opting for the path of pain. For a short time I can stand to inhale the lukewarm, insipid air of the so-called good days, free of desire and pain. But, childish soul that I am, I then get so madly sore at heart and miserable that I fling my rusty thanksgiving lyre in the smug face of the drowsy god of contentment and opt for a true, devilish pain burning inside me rather than this room temperature so easy on the stomach.