Introduction

Abstract

Book shredding is difficult to watch. Not in the sense that it is uncomfortable — although some may find it so, and such feelings of discomfort are one starting point for this volume. Mainly, however, it is difficult to watch because no one will let you see it. There is something secretive and hidden about this process. Our visit to a book pulping plant in the Midlands takes almost a year to arrange: we are granted an interview only after protracted negotiations, a series of deferrals and cancellations, and a set of provisos. We are not allowed to name the plant, specify its location, or name the manager who, seated opposite us in a bare, bleak office, and with the constant background din of next door’s shredding machines, tells us we are lucky to be here. Some years ago a national newspaper wanted an article and pictures. When he refused they hovered above the plant in a helicopter taking tele-photo snaps. The plant is strategically unkempt to keep away visitors. ‘Nobody knows what it is,’ he says. Partly the secrecy is cold, hard, business sense. Books need to be destroyed or the market would collapse: returns or surplus stock can’t leak out to be resold, so leftovers have to be shredded securely. A ‘Certificate of Destruction’ proves the items no longer exist. But there are other reasons, too, unspoken but palpable. Our visit is treated with caution because the deliberate destruction of books is a delicate issue. Publishers have their image to protect.