When I reveal things about the family I was born to, people think it's pretty weird. They're right.

Yeah, I know, all families have their own version of peculiarities. Even outright weirdness, if not genuine insanity. My family isn't as bad as some, but it is strange enough.

There wasn't a lot of physical abuse, but there was an abundance of emotional torment going on. I don't really care to go into all of that. I bring it up to help explain why I am estranged from most of the people I grew up with. We all, five children, flew our separate ways and barely looked back.

My brother, David Sieber, was six years older than me. That's not a long time for adults, but in the world of children six years might as well be a lifetime. David rarely played with me when I was very young, and by the time I began to develop into my own person, with my own tastes and behavior patterns, David was retreating from his family in the way teenagers usually do.

I knew Dave was intelligent. He was a voracious reader. Dave was a serious musician and mastered numerous instruments--including guitar, keyboards, and cello--at an early age. I remember his obsession with John Lennon.

Dave later became interested in jazz and progressive rock. He also liked antisocial artists like Alice Cooper and Black Sabbath. His bedroom was a scary place to me. I used to be terrified of a poster of Cooper hanging himself that was on his closet door.

It was pretty obvious that David had some problems. He was a hippie and drugs were a big part of that culture. It seemed like his pursuits in that area went beyond pot. Or even acid.

David eventually joined the Air Force and was in their band. From there he followed one of his musical idols, Chick Corea, into Scientology. As I understand it, Scientology helped Dave beat drugs.

Dave ended up having a good career in software and I am still unsure whether he continued to be a Scientologist or if he left the church.

But I'm here to talk about books.

There were a lot of catalysts into my development as an avowed reader. I could probably list dozens but perhaps David had the most influence on me.

A very early memory of mine involves a box of books Dave owned. They were all Science Fiction, and I was looking at them in awe. The books looked like the most amazing things in the world, and I distinctly remember aching to be able to read them. I couldn't wait until I learned to read. I already knew I was going to be a Science Fiction fan.

There were quite a few books in that box. I seem to recall some Asimov, maybe John Wyndham. I was mesmerized by one cover. The book was called Children of the Void, and it had an illustration of a large devil on the surface of a planet. The cover both frightened and intrigued me.

I became a bigger reader than Dave, or just about anyone else I knew, but I forgot about Children of the Void a long time ago.

Last night I heard that David had died. I had not heard from him in decades. I knew he was on Facebook, and I could have reached out. Somehow I didn't.

A flood of memories came back, and that box of books was foremost among them. And I thought of Children of the Void.

Last night I had the old paperback of Children of the Void in an AbeBooks shopping cart, and I almost ordered it. Instead, I deleted the order. Better, I think, to leave it alone. There's no way the book could ever equal the wonder and terror I felt for it way, way, back then. It's not like William Dexter is one of the revered names of SF. I imagine it was hackwork.

So now I bid farewell to Dave, with some regrets, but mostly gratitude for instilling the love of books in me. The most tragic part is how he never had any idea how deeply those books affected me.

As I said, I didn't really know David. I grieve, but it feels kind of remote. Mostly it's another sharp reminder of my own mortality.

Written by Mark Sieber

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