Having got some spare ratty bookcases for the bedroom, I'm sorting out my collection and consigning all the old sf/general stuff out of sight. This will allow me to bury the occasional John Ringo, Ann Rice or even Piers Anthony embarrassment my pack-rativeness won't allow me to get rid of.
But then I came across a copy of Ayn Rand's "The Fountainhead".
I'm philosophically against burning or destroying books, but - Jesus. I think I got it cheap once just to see how bad it really was (answer "bad"). I don't wanna sell it or give it away on the grounds that it's toxic waste.
I guess I may keep it and use it to fuck up impressionable arrogant teenagers. I recall fondly one snotty Milton Friedman fan on a university BBS that I pushed towards "Atlas Shrugged" in the hopes that it would screw him up for at least five years...