My love or lack thereof for a book is about so much more than whether it's good art. The individual physical book's characteristics and the place in my own story during which I'm reading it add to the overall flavor. Those are the factors I want to express here.
So far I'm reading most of The Monk in bed at night with my tiny black cat curled up on my chest purring and rubbing her face against the book corners occasionally to assert that the book and I are both hers.
My copy is a tiny blue hardcover with no paper jacket. I bought it at Powell's Books in Portland last summer, along with 3 Radcliffe novels. I was passing through Portland with my sister on our way up to Seattle for a 3-day weekend. We arrived at about 1am, stayed at a historic (but cheap) hotel around the corner from Powell's, spent 3 hours and about $300 (on my part alone) in that literary disneyland, and then got back on the road.
I haven't gotten to the dark parts that I know are coming, thanks to the introduction in this edition by Stephen King. I'm hoping to finish in time to see the French film version in theaters, but we'll see.