Literary taste is subjective, after all.
But I think the issue here is literary time – because my grandfather was the same way.
The simple fact is that for most of human history, few people had the time and luxury to even consider literary things.
My grandfather worked so hard for so long that outside his prominently displayed Louis L’amour collection, he read very little.
I do vividly remember looking at saddles with him…
How I came to acquire literary taste at all remains a mystery to me. My parents were indifferent to books, and, indeed, to taste itself, although my father might admire a fine saddle. But taste of a broader sort would have fallen very low in their catalogue of values.