An Ode to Papa: Book 3

My home has always contained books. My parents loved books, non-fiction. They loved newspapers, and current event magazines. Film stuff was an absolute no-no. Music was classical, ghazals. Everything that leaned towards depth and layers of meaning.
Back to books, and my father's collection. Well-thumbed, and never dog-eared, copies of Penguin classics; the gamut running from poetry, plays, to what is considered classics. Papa is a post-graduate in English literature, but his love of all things books comes from his deep respect for any kind of intellectual endeavour.
I found a writer called Saki (H. H. Munro) on my father's bookshelf when I was in my tweens. I read a dark, extremely funny story about a boy and a mythical animal, and I was well and truly in love. I also found Moby Dick, Camus, Nietzche, and best of all, To Kill a Mockingbird. I would sell my soul to the devil several times over to have written that book !
I also found sketches, some of nudes, done in pencil. I don't know why and when Papa started drawing, and why he stopped.
There were also copies of Span, the Illustrated Weekly, the stray National Geographic. (My parents would rather commit hara-kiri than get rid of the printed word). There were letters received from his loved ones, my mother, some friends and so on. There were a couple of diaries, but I didn't peek.
I am told that I opened my eyes and started reading. Anything that fell into my chubby little hands. It's no wonder, really, I was brought up by people who loved books. Books were not just friends in my house, they were family.
Papa loves reading history, and can probably tell you what has been happening in the world since 2 secs after the Big Bang. He has a gift for analysis, and when impassioned, a gift for communication.
Papa would be the happiest person in the world if I wrote, a book, an article, anything, and if I were published. He thinks I have talent. Thanks, Papa. I'll see what I can do.