On the evening after my first day of university classes, I read chapter one of my Introduction to English Literature textbook. I did not read a college textbook again until my final year.
In retrospect, I should not have graduated.

University textbooks -- especially introductory books -- are almost always boring. The straightforward information style, coupled with the extra-formal writing style of professionals never caught my attention. Each semester, I would open my textbooks, breathe in their new book smell, and fall asleep.
To make up for this lack of information, I attended every class. I dutifully took notes and asked questions. When major exams or papers came up, I mastered skimming. My grades kept up and I naively assumed that I was "one of those people" who would go through university without really reading.
It lasted until my final year, when, in a moment wreaking of Alanis Morrisette-style irony, I discovered that I should probably read the textbook for the 100-level class I was taking electively. The next day, my professor's lecture was never more interesting.
"I already know this," I thought to myself as she lectured. "I. AM. A. GENIUS." I remember looking about the classroom, mocking the freshmen around me. A bunch of idiots, they were.
My grades went up, but more importantly, my interest went up. As it turned out, some of the books in my other classes were fascinating.
I still have the books about Eva Peron, wind turbines and Martha Gellhorn from that semester.