I'm busy reading Thomas Pynchon's The Crying Of Lot 49. I should have it finished up by the end of the week - it's only 100-odd pages long. Trouble is, those 100-odd pages are very odd indeed, and the text is so dense and so peppered with allusion, that it's taking longer than most books would.
I like Pynchon. Anybody who has his own Wiki, with notes and explanations for every page, has to be worth reading.
I also like Pynchon's vibe: he's a total recluse, refusing to do telly interviews and making absolutely no public appearances. There is (according to the legend that I'm happy to perpetuate) only one known photograph of him - and it's so old and so arb, it could be of anybody, really. Makes a fascinating change from all those pop culture publicity hounds. And, strangely, it makes his already-intangible (some might say incoherent) prose seem all the more distant.
You've got to have some mystery in your culture.