I got the last two boxes of my grandpa's books last night and finished adding them to my spreadsheet just a minute ago. And...we're pretty sure that's it. We thought we had them all a bit ago, but when I went through I knew my grandpa's books well enough to see that it couldn't be all of them, and sure enough, there were three more boxes from that point. I will admit to feeling a little smug that I knew my grandpa well enough to be able to say, "No, that's not right, there's more Griffin and more Ludlum at least and I think some other stuff, too."
I also feel a little funny about it, that I'm done with this now, that I still have the books to read but there aren't any more boxes of them coming. That what's here is what there is. The sheer finity of death is part of what bothers me. It's one thing to know that something like a life or a library is finite and another thing to come smack up against it personally.
For you Diana Wynne Jones fans: apparently what Christopher Chant does when he's not being Chrestomanci is write books about zeppelins. Not the least appropriate thing in the world, I fancy.