In her re-read of Frank Herbert’s Dune, Jo Walton emits a devastatingly accurate assessment of the novel’s sequels:
I loved it when I was twelve, and I read the sequels, which are each half as good as the one before, and I didn’t give up until they were homeopathically good.
“Homeopathically good”: that’s a great — if nasty — line. (Think about it.) But her assessment aligns with mine: I still read Dune again every now and then, but got rid of the rest of the series years ago.