It sounds rather like an ancient cult worshipping a pagan god.

Picture the scene: a vast cavern; all around, obedient acolytes, dressed alike, engaged in one ceaseless, repetitive activity; each feeding the flames of the immense fire, which emerges from a bottomless pit at the centre of the cavern.  This fire is the object of their worship.  This is Voracious Claude.  And he feeds on books.

Thousands of books; millions of books; if possible, all books.  The more the better.  Claude’s appetite is insatiable.

Before it is consumed, each book must be ritualistically prepared for sacrifice.  This is the job of the acolytes.  First the spine of each book is removed; bodily ripped off in an act of violent destruction.  Then the pages are separated, before being trimmed to a uniform size.

No book is spared.  Jackie Collins; Jilly Cooper; Harold Robbins.  George Eliot; Charlotte Brontë; Charles Dickens.  All are mere fodder for Voracious Claude.

Chinua Achebe; Enid Blyton; Richard Osman.  No distinction is made between high literature and pulp fiction.  All that matters is that Voracious Claude is fed.

His acolytes believe that Voracious Claude is the guardian of writing in the future.

But I do not believe them.

For me, Voracious Claude is simply the latest incarnation in a long line of book-burners, and I can’t think of one instance from history when that particular philosophy has ever progressed humanity.

© Fergus Longfellow

Fergus Longfellow feels a bit destructive himself when he thinks about AI.