Am I screwed in the head?

I am currently reading Milan Kundera's the Unbearable Lightness of Being. I'm partially in love with Kundera coz he echoes my mind on the unstructured expressions of spiritualism (My ex-boss would call this description 'spiritualism my arse, k', and would have asked me to rewrite it in a way that would not annoy sane people.) Digressions apart, I asked the Best man, from his collection, to get me Steven Pressfield's The Virtues of War, which I hear is a brilliant account on Alexander.

His reaction was, "Kya, since when did you start reading stuff like this? Were you not reading Kundera? Kundera and Pressfield do not go in the same sentence! Tera dimag hai ki Sybil Isabel Dorsett ki aatma? 


Seriously, what is so incorrect about reading Kundera and Pressfield, Swift and  de Beauvoir, Dawkins and Coelho, Sheldon and Shakespeare simulteneously or subsequently? Can't Archie and Camus earn equal respect on my bookshelf?