When a book is opened, there is a slow gathering of momentum through its early pages. Typically, a blank page moves aside for one declaring the work’s name, subtitle and author. Then comes a ladder list of ‘Books by the Same Author’, and italicised paragraphs of ‘Praise For’ this or previous works.
Turned, such decorative content gives way to earnest and weighty matters in petite fonts: first-publishing dates, second reprints and further editions; moral rights asserted and copyrights for excerpts gratefully received; stately addresses of publishing houses, CIP catalogue availability, and protracted ISBNs; chosen typefaces and typesetters, and the trustworthy names of binders and printers. If this roll-call of the production process usually goes unread, it is with good reason – often on the facing page is the Author’s Dedication, a frequently intriguing and occasionally moving detail. It may only bother the page with two or three words or a single line, yet it makes for idle moments of diverting speculation, curiosity and even sadness. Whatever the emotion stirred, a dedication nourishes the connection between author, book and reader.
What follows an innocuous word such as ‘For’ or ‘To’ offers a fragment of autobiography and conjures images. ‘For my parents’ usually graces an author’s early books, and we see a flash of those parents, an older couple encouraging the author through exams and pretending not to be worried when she gives up her job to write a novel. ‘To my darling Marie, for everything’ suggests a tirelessly supportive wife, reading proofs and nursing an author’s mood swings.
Anything containing initials – ‘To S. R.’; ‘For J. H. B.’ – drips mystery onto the page, and intrigue becomes scintillating when a ‘You know why’ or similar is added. An in-joke between author and recipient is tantalising and we wish to be admitted to the fold. On occasion, a book is dedicated to an entire area, time period or followers of a musical genre. Perhaps it is heartfelt. Then again, perhaps the author chose no single person for fear of offending dozens more. A reader saves their longest pauses for dedications that commence ‘In memory of’, and souls remembered ‘with deep affection’. The page becomes a time for reflection, a paper tombstone, a place where tears for someone completely unknown are justified. ‘For Olivia. 20 April 1955–17 November 1962,’ reads Roald Dahl’s dedication in The BFG.
This simple concept heightens our involvement with a book before it has even begun. It is a final dose of real life and a last check of the rear view mirror before a story spirits us away. Later, we are left to daydream that one day our own name will be there, ‘in deepest admiration’, or, even better, as titillating initials.