Nick Southall tells a sad and moving story in Stylus Magazine:

A few years ago the library agreed to accept a donation of some 4,000 LPs and 2,000 CDs from a private jazz collector upon his death. Though still very much alive, he is in his 80s now and fragile both mentally and physically, so his younger brother arranged for the collection to be taken early. My job was a diplomatic one, essentially—to oversee the packing and removal of the collection by a logistics firm as a mediator should there be any hiccups.

There weren’t. In fact it took four men barely an hour to pack and remove the entire collection. I watched them do it in a state of awed melancholy as it struck me that they had completely dismantled a man’s passion, a man’s life, in barely the time it would have taken to listen Kind of Blue.

It occasionally occurs to me to wonder what will become of my vinyl, when I’m gone. It’s probably telling that it is only the vinyl that causes these wonderings; I really don’t much care what happens to the CDs. The chances are, I’ll dispose of the vast majority of the CDs, when I find myself with the time and energy to stick them on ebay. I don’t relish the task, but the idea doesn’t cause me any pain. Most of the vinyl, however, will be staying the distance with me.