I've had some similar experiences, but (thankfully) to a lesser degree. Oh, Shannon how I love thee:
I adored the intoxicating discussions, the unraveling of poetry, the sweet little A's at the tops of my essays. (Let's pretend they were all A's. There's no reason to become slaves to detail here.) . . .
Steinbeck was like trudging through mud to get to an ice cream stand that exploded and burned just as I arrived. I couldn't understand why I was supposed to care about Hemingway characters who spent forty pages drinking and fishing. I still haven't recovered from The Scarlet Letter. . .