Chucked a whole crapload of my brother's books.
I offered to look after the cleaning out of his apartment. But my sister and dad wanted to do it. So fine. Go ahead. Let me know what it cost and I will pay a share.
So, among many other things, they toted 4 large, heavy bags of books outta there.
:
I'm not talking about books he wrote. Just books. Like half of them, he read once. A handful maybe more than once. There are a bunch of Stephen Kings which would not even have been his. Some woman from the past.
Some of them are very good books. We had very similar taste in reading material. It was a pretty standard thing that if I read something really weird, I would get him a copy the following Christmas. I saw a bunch of stuff like that in there.
So my sister asked me if I wanted them. I said yes, I will gladly take them. And I hauled these heavy bags of books home at Christmas.
And now I have chucked them. I have done her a favor but she will never know.
Maybe I'm a heartless bastard? Maybe, when I move in a couple months, I should haul a few hundred pounds of these books with me? For sentimental reasons? And make space for them in my new place? And dust them once a month. And maybe look at them from across the room and cry once in awhile or something?