In 1982, in my first real place on my own (2-bedroom townhouse for $45K, shag carpet from two or three owners before), I bought a Britannica (five easy payments) for my first real bookshelves (“real” = not cinderblock and boards, not “real” = real wood). I felt very adult.

Twenty years, six domiciles, and two weddings later, the encyclopedias failed the dust layer test (and I needed more space on my actual really wood bookcases) and went to the basement. One flood in our “leak-proof” basement later, the books went with the truckload of ruined junk to the dump. Most were still in good shape, but the magic was gone. Even my wife, bibliophile that she is, did not protest.