1: 'The Three Musketeers', Dumas. I'm an idiot, a jackanape, a scoundrel, a fool, an imbecile, because I never picked this book up before now. It is better than anything. Ever. Terrific fun. Apparently the recent Oxford translation is far superior to a lot of other English language versions: I can say that a lot of the construction of language seemed to be very directly French.
2: 'The Phoenix Guards', Stephen Brust. Brust likes Dumas. Brust is why I finally read 'Three Musketeers'. Brust is not a god amongst hamsters, like Dumas was- but he's definitely fun. He has a slightly more developed sense of the ironic, which gives the narrative a lot of piquancy.
3: 'The Telling', Ursula LeGuin. It's LeGuin. You can't really go wrong with short-novel LeGuin: about the only LeGuin I've less than loved was over 250 pages (this beast's about 225).
4: 'Pelt', Daphne Gottlieb. Daphne's poetry is fun. I'm spoiled; I've heard her read, and I know the meter and scansion of her pronunciations and whatnot, so reading her for me may be very different from someone who doesn't know her voice.
5: 'Bloodcurdling Tales of Horror & the Macabre', HP Lovecraft (anthology, ed. August Derleth). It's a damn shame that all the Del Rey Lovecraft is out of print, and all the Arkham House editions are long past the verge of that territory named 'affordable'. It's interesting re-reading these 15 years down the line- there's a freshness to them that I had forgotten entirely.
6: 'The Paths of the Dead', Stephen Brust (in progress). Brust gets better at the early-1800s picaresque-by-numbers; the sense of the ironic is considerably more developed, and the story flows a lot better.