I’m the Guy Who Destroys Antique Books After We Scan Them into Our Company’s Insatiable AI Platform

“Vendors and rare books experts are increasingly worried that these artifacts may be under threat of destruction by generative AI companies seeking to feed their ravenous technology with new texts. Fears stem from a copyright lawsuit brought against [Anthropic] by book authors. Unsealed court files revealed earlier this year that the company was engaging in the practice of ‘destructive scanning’—buying physical books, slicing off the spines to more efficiently scan the pages, then pulping the remains—and had sought to keep it quiet.” — The Guardian

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I realize enthusiasm for one’s job is a little embarrassing now, but honestly, I adore what I do. I’m the guy who destroys priceless antique books once our generative AI scanners are finished with them.

Officially, my title is Senior Legacy Media Completion Specialist, but everyone calls me Book Doug. There was already another Doug, you see, but he works in Accounts Payable, so I got the fun one.

People assume scanning is the exciting part. And, sure, it is impressive. They shear off the spine, separate the pages, and run everything through these enormous machines so the computer can absorb every sentence ever written and use it to create some fairly compelling LinkedIn posts. But then, boy oh boy, the wheeled cart carrying those decimated remains comes to me. That is where the human touch enters the process, assuming you count industrial shredders and a giant burn pit out back as an extension of the hand, which I certainly do.

Our company has a very founder-led culture, so everyone is encouraged to approach problems like an owner. I do not own the company, obviously. I own a 2012 Mitsubishi Galant. Still, when I see a one-of-a-kind, three-hundred-year-old tome taking up six whole inches of shelf space, I immediately start thinking about scale and efficiency.

The older books are my favorite because they arrive with such rich history. Thick leather covers, gold inset lettering, the musty smell of age, and sometimes a handwritten note from 1894 that I don’t bother to read, and the scanners largely skip since it’s not integral to our performance KPIs. Then, the magic. One minute, they are a treasured record of human thought. The next, they are twelve searchable megabytes and a manageable quantity of mixed paper strips going into one of several large, welcoming bins marked DESTROY.

People ask whether I ever feel bad. Usually this happens after someone learns the books are rare, so I explain that rarity is really just an inventory problem. If there is only one copy left, the efficient move is to make it infinitely reproducible and immediately unavailable to anyone without a subscription. You can see people relax once I walk them through it slowly. Their shoulders slump in an accepting way. They stare. Sometimes they make a wordless rasping, just like the books do as I slide their sliced-out pages into oblivion.

We also recycle, which matters to me personally. I’m very environmental. I love reclaimed wood, barn doors, things like that. Some of the pulp becomes cardboard, and that cardboard may eventually become a box used to ship us more books.

You are a very good listener, by the way. Most people interrupt around the phrase “controlled combustion,” but you have barely moved. I appreciate that. It tells me you are comfortable around ambition.

Anyway, I’m sorry—listen to me go. I’ve talked about myself quite enough. What did you say you do again? A librarian? What’s that about?