Incineration

I was in my teens and a bathtub when I first read Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five. Published in 1969, the novel is about an American prisoner-of-war, Billy Pilgrim, who is held captive in Dresden during the Allied bombing that destroyed the city. This was an experience shared by the author, who in a postmodern flourish meets his own protagonist in the filthy latrines. I opened my mother’s slim 1970s paperback, began to read – ‘All this happened, more or less’ – and kept on reading until I had finished it, by which time the bath was cold and my fingers were as pulpy as the pages. When I re-read the same copy for this review it fell to pieces. So it goes.

Above a foul towering dump in Delhi a cloud of vultures and Siberian black kites fly in hope, ‘careening over the mountainside like some dreadful murmuration’. Here some of the world’s million waste pickers stash water bottles along their route, ‘like climbers making camp’. Oliver Franklin-Wallis concedes that his subject – the dirty truth of what happens to our rubbish – is not appealing. Much of the unusable, stained tat charity shops receive is sent abroad, whether it’s wanted or not But he does his best to make that untrue with arresting analogies and metaphors that shine like metal in trash in his account of his extensive travels through what the world discards and disdains.