I've been trying to get someone else to read Lucky Jim for over fifteen years. "You'll love it," I told my husband. "It's really funny." No go. Then it sat on my sister's bookshelf – in three different states. "I'm just never going to read this," she confessed (in 2001). Finally I tried my daughter, who was an infant when I first read it. Now that she's older, she sometimes listens to my opinions about books. And then I found it in a pile of books outside her room, books she'd tried but just couldn't get into. (She's only sixteen, and a lot of the humor would probably have sailed over her head anyway.) And then it occurred to me: I was courting the wrong people, using my influence in the wrong places. I made it my book club selection for the year, and decided to use my Internet powers for good.

When I re-read Lucky Jim for book club, I was pleased to find it just as funny and relevant as it was the first time I read it. It was first published in 1954, inaugurating a subgenre in England of "campus novels." Its author, Kingsley Amis, is considered to be part of a post-war group of writers dubbed "the angry young men." But while this book is certainly heavy on cynicism, it's not what I'd call angry. (Reportedly, many of his other books are, but I've never read them).

Basically, this is the story of Jim Dixon, a History lecturer at a newer, upstart-ish British university, struggling to retain a job he hates with a senior professor (Professor Welch) he can't respect and can barely tolerate. He has a sort-of girlfriend called Margaret, a needy woman whose lipstick is never quite right, and a cadre of empathetic and occasionally helpful friends. At the start of the novel, Jim attends a house party/"arty weekend" at Welch's home, where he manages to get drunk, burn holes in his bedding, and pick a fight with Welch's annoying son Bertrand. This weekend sets several plot elements in motion. First, Jim realizes that he much prefers Bertrand's girlfriend Christine to Margaret. This sets off a war of sorts with Bertrand. Jim also gets on Mrs. Welch's bad side, and spends the rest of the novel avoiding her and any conversation about his ruined bedclothes.

While Jim is worrying about these important matters, he is also trying to keep his job. He needs to compose a one hour lecture on the topic "Merrie Old England," get his uninteresting article on ship-building techniques published, and interest a few students in his "special subject" for next term (preferably some of the prettier girls).

Jim Dixon may not sound all that likeable. Actually, one of the members of my book club said that what interested her most about this book was that she disliked every single character, with the possible exception of Jim's landlady (who shows up only occasionally to feed her tenants and fix Jim's trousers). But to me, Jim's likability isn't exactly the point; the point is that Jim and his book are hilarious. "Comic masterpiece" is not a term I'd throw around lightly, but Lucky Jim earns this accolade in spades.

Why is Jim so funny to me? Part of it is his self-awareness. Some of the humor in this book is situational, like Jim's botched handling of the bedclothes disaster, or his drunken delivery of the Merrie Old England lecture. But I'd say the bulk of it stems from Jim's internal monologue. His cynical observations spare no one, and he is as hard on himself as he is on anyone else. But not in a whiny, poor-me way – in a self-mocking, "whom am I kidding" way. Some of the funniest parts are the assessments of his own work, which he knows to be complete rubbish. His running internal commentary on everyone's foibles provides most of the laugh-out-loud moments in the book. In one instance in particular, he is trying to get Welch to give him an idea of whether he can expect to keep his job. While Welch hems and haws, Jim starts imagining the conversation he would like to be having with him, which involves the frequent use of the word "cockchafer." This scene was so hilarious to me when I first read it that I remembered it nearly word-for word – even after all these years.

In my decade-plus of reviewing, I've certainly learned that humor can be tricky to pin down. What's funny to one reader is completely un-funny to another. One of my fellow book club members, who was too anxious on Jim's behalf to find any part of the book funny, finds The Three Musketeers hilarious. I couldn't even finish The Three Musketeers, and wondered repeatedly why anyone considered it to be a classic. I'd guess that people who have spent some time in the academic world – and have seen some of the rampant self-importance – are more likely to find Jim funny. But who's to say? You either laugh or you don't.

I read Lucky Jim while I was in grad school, studying history. It was part of the reading for a Modern British History class, and I read it during a time in my life when I had virtually no time or inclination to read for pleasure. Reading was all I did all day, so by the time I got home I was more in the mood to stare, zombie-like, at the television. But though I read it for school, it was an unadulterated pleasure. I was so pleased to discover that it was just as funny fifteen years later, and just as relevant as it was when it was published over half a century ago. I really hope you try it – and that you find it as funny as I do.