My Father's Library

Forbes has an essay about a father's book collection and what it might teach his son.

From the piece...

Like drug addiction and poor pronunciation, book collecting is one of those sins prone to be passed from generation to generation. My grandfather, Carl Jones, even published the stuff in his home--a kind of literary moonshine. His high-grade history and magic books still enjoy cult status. For my father, it must have been like growing up in a crystal meth lab, with all the tweedy chain-smoking book pushers hanging out in his childhood home. Dad never had a chance. At first he was hooked on the quality stuff: 19th- and 20th-century classics, history and science fiction. Then his habit got expensive, with letters, manuscripts and first editions. Later in life he reverted to paperbacks, newspapers and endless magazine subscriptions--the crack of bibliophiles.

He cut it all with memorabilia. Writers' personal possessions mingled with ours as if their owners lived with us. Hemingway's skis with leather bindings sat next to ours in the garage rafters. I was greeted every morning in the hallway by a full-length signed photo of Zane Grey with giant tuna. I watched TV in the remote exile of our basement while sitting on Charles Dickens's stiff-backed writing chair. When choosing nails from the toolbox, I had to avoid using the large rusty ones from Jack London's ranch in Sonoma. His Dictaphone rested on the stair landing.

When I was still young enough not to repeat tales like this to my mother, Dad brought me to Sonoma to visit a fellow Jack London fanatic with a bookstore right next to the Jack London Ranch. "Here's something for the collection," Dad's jovial book pal said, pulling out from his desk drawer a large clear plastic bag filled with gray powder. "Jack's niece," he announced. "She died without any relatives, so now I've got her remains."