When he died in 1924, Quinn bequeathed his letters to the New York Public Library, but the courts construed his will as barring publication in any form until 1988. Scholars who have been permitted to read them in the library's Manuscript Room have to sign a special form agreeing not to use direct quotation, and are forbidden to take notes.

But to Kavanagh, these restrictions were outrageously unjust...

In the Manuscript Room, he had no compunction about signing the pledge not to quote from the letters. "To me," he explains, "that paper had no more validity than posting a sign in my flat, 'Not responsible if the roof falls in.' I was driven and had no choice."

For 13 days Kavanagh pored over the letters. Unable to take notes, he simply memorized salient passages, then rushed outside to jot them down. When he had all he wanted he went on to the most arduous task of all: hand-setting the book and printing it...

Kavanagh had not sold a single copy of the Quinn Letters when the library served him with a restraining order, preventing him from distributing the edition and demanding its confiscation. At that point, Kavanagh made a heartbreaking decision.

"I don't want their bloody hands on my book," he said, and on the morning of the hearing he systematically hacked 117 volumes with a shoemaker's knife, shearing them down the middle. "It's like tearing my heart out," he said...

Kavanagh arrived in court with a briefcase crammed with the literary remains. He approached the bench and addressed the judge as "your lordship." Then he upended his briefcase and scattered his shredded copies as evidence that he had obeyed the injunction. The judge explained that he was not "his lordship" and gave Kavanagh permission to keep two unshredded copies of the book for himself.