Book 7 of Harry Potter.
Of Harry Potter
When the Harry Potter books first hit the market, they were met with a roar of acclaim and hype so vast, so deafening, and so bloody annoying that I resolved not to read the books for years, in part out of (silly and) bloody-minded obstinacy not to be so moved by the mass market; and in part because I would judge them negatively and unfairly out of sheer irritation with the hype. Once I had finally come to terms with their existance, I decided that I would eventually read them, since several people whose opinion on these matters I respected really liked them.
For some reason, I then spent several years waiting on various people who, each at different times, assured me that they’d lend me the books just next month or so, which of course never happened at all. When, at long last, I finally got around to acquiring and reading the damned things—in 2007 or so—they turned out to be very good. Not as good as the hype would have it, of course, but then nothing would be. Still, in spite of flagging a bit in some chapters of some of the later books where things just get exhaustingly angsty, they are very good books that, in spite of being marketed for children, even self-conscious I do not feel ashamed to keep them on my shelf.