Scholars in the humanities at least, and perhaps in the social sciences as well, are attracted to the academic life for many reasons, but the one magnet that draws them all is books. If they did not love to read, own, fondle, and, yes, show off books, they probably would not have chosen a career in academe. A love of books per se might send a person into bookselling or librarianship, but a love of reading them, teaching them, and doing research in them is what makes a scholar. That's certainly what drew me initially to the professorial life.

Oddly enough, books were not a memorable part of my childhood. For someone who can now remember the call numbers of favorite books, I can't remember a single book that made an indelible impression on me until I was in junior high school. My home simply didn't have many books when I was growing up. Neither my father nor mother read books or bought them. I'm sure they bought a few dimestore "Golden" books for my younger brother and me, but I don't recall ever being read to or their titles, characters, pictures, or plots. I didn't read The Wind in the Willows until I went to college. After my parents were divorced, my stepmother brought a few shelves of books to our new ménage, but they were largely Reader's Digest condensations and mysteries. Nevertheless, these lightweights were interspersed with some contemporary novels and short stories and a few classics, mostly from the Literary Guild. I do remember being dragooned into reading Booth Tarkington's Penrod to satisfy a Cub Scout badge requirement by my stepmother, who doubled