To my sister, Dr. Soma Mohammed Mohammed Baroud. I write your name in full, because that is how it appeared on the white body bag that held your remains soon after the bomb was dropped.
Dedications
A random assortment of book dedications.
For those who supported me through the SOC years; Al Hancock, Linda Merchant, Eric Jones, Larry Doucette, Anna Spychalla, Aaron Burns, Archie Price, Nate Marks, Mike Tillman, Nancy Sorensen, Dale Woolheater and of course my good friend Scott McCoy. Thank you! For those that inspire me always; my dearest wife Monica, and my precious jewels Jonathan, Aaron & Maija. I love you! This book is dedicated to my son; Nicholas Gregory Jarpey December 19, 1995 – January 28, 2014 A son, a brother and friend to all with a bright smile and quick joke to light up someone’s day. I love you and miss you with all my heart. Rest in peace buddy.
For my son, Sacha Ambrose Warhaft, January 1985–October 1988 ‘my little ear of wheat, winnowed and reaped unripe’ (Greek lament)
To my wife and daughter—returned from the Camp of the Dead
In Memory of all the Indigenous Children in Unmarked Graves
To my father, who will not be mentioned in the world history books, though he is written in the heart of God as His beloved child: Michael Moussa Chacour from Biram in Galilee, refugee in his own country and one who speaks the language of patience, forgiveness and love. And to my brothers and sisters, the Jews who died in Dachau; and their brothers and sisters, the Palestinians who died in Tel-azzaatar, Sabra and Shatila refugee camps.
This book is dedicated to our ancestral grandmothers, who braided seeds in their hair before being forced to board transatlantic slave ships, believing against the odds in a future of sovereignty on land.
For my sisters, Susannah and Jemima. My story is made whole by yours.
To my parents, and to all those others who carted fragments of memories, images, songs and ghazals across the space-times of partitioned South Asian sands.
For Theo, who followed the road before it was a road, for Daniel, for unconditional everything, and for Nic, who bangs into walls better than anyone I know
Balthazar Fabuloso in the Lair of the Humbugs by I.J. Brindle
For Bill, Lynne, and Todd— it is a profound miracle when family bonds weave beyond themselves and bind us into true friendship. For Annette, Andrew, and Spence Richards— it is another kind of miracle entirely when friendship bends beyond itself and binds us into family. And most of all, for Aaron and Henry— for sharing with me the daily glittering miracles of marriage, motherhood, and love.
For the nerdy kids who were born sharp and grew up honing that sharpness like a weapon because they had no choice: I see you. I am you. Never let the assholes dull your shine… or your thorns.
To Everyone Who Hoped It Might Be True
To the Dead We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved …
For Ali, without whose skill and perseverance with my knotted muscles none of my recent books would have ever been written, and whose extraordinary frankness and generosity in sharing her cancer journey have made it possible for me to write Livvy’s story. I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for me. I just wish I could give you your happy ending. xxx
For Diane Ullman—My friend, my soul sister, my champion. You ruined me for other bosses.
Breaking Free from Myths About Teaching and Learning by Allison Zmuda
For my husband, Henry, and my two wonderful daughters, Sara Elisabeth (b. 12 November 2000) and Mair Clare (b. 6 December 2005), along with her dog, Dara (31 October 2013–22 June 2017), whose short life, and tragic death, helped to teach us all what it means to be human.
Theological Ethics through a Multispecies Lens by Celia E. Deane-Drummond
To Sue Graves Stubbs, who always believed in me To Mariah Neal and James Patterson, because of whom racism could not take root in my soul A.T. To the Koinonia Farm community for allowing me the space, time, resources, and support to participate in this project T. N.
To Ariadna, Davidcito, Dan Armando and Isadora for popping popcorn and watching so many Mexican animated films with me over the years. And to my nephew, Finn Martin, who loved cartoons. I hope you have a TV in heaven so you can watch these films!
To Beatrice— darling, dearest, dead.
A Series of Unfortunate Events #1: The Bad Beginning by Lemony Snicket
For my heroes, my sons. Daniel Philip Leidner, Michael Ryan Leidner, and Jason Michael Leidner 1985–2020 And he said to him, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the great and first commandment. And a second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” —Matthew 22:37–39 Jason, you loved well.
To the ones who listened too closely, and to the silence that answered back.
To our disabled, queer of color doulas and ancestors. To Amy for leading me home.
In memory of three intellectually vibrant young people who were full of light and who strove throughout their all-too-short lives to make a profound difference to all they touched with their love and grace. While this book is about spaces of war, they fervently embodied peace, goodness, and integrity. May we all strive to follow in their footsteps: Will J. Reid (1986–2013), Jamie Soukup Reid (1988–2013), and Bryn Frederick Hutchinson (1998–2016).
To my wife Vimala whose courage and fortitude enabled me to face with calm and cheer the prospect of never being able to come out of jail alive
To my wife, Sarah, who courageously walked with me through our pilgrimage of lament. I love you. To my daughter, Sylvia, whom God used to teach me that hard is hard; hard is not bad. We miss you.
This book is dedicated to all Caucasians in the great republic who can trace their ancestry back ten generations and confidently assert that there are no black leaves, twigs, limbs, or branches on their family trees
To the unknown gunmen—our friends
To all those who, even when memory fades, remain forever present in our hearts. To my father, who forgot everything… except how to call my name with love.
For my old uncles who lost their leg For my aunties who died young And some still kickin’
For Lucretia Wannamaker Earle and Rachel King Williams, my great-great-grandmothers, who were born into slavery in South Carolina but who lived long enough to experience freedom after the Civil War
TO MY PAST: You should have killed me When you had the chance.
This book is dedicated to those who have been impacted by sexual violence, whose pain has been ignored or silenced, in the hope that the church will one day be a truer reflection of El Roi— the God who sees you.
This book is dedicated to my dog, children, step-children, grandchildren, parents, grandparents, siblings, in-laws, nephews, nieces, friends, parishioners, stalkers, Mexican food restaurants, Jesus, and my wife —a beautiful, artistic, special needs advocate and future Roman Catholic woman priest. Thanks, Annie, for locking the door until I finished writing.
To the broken and the lost keep on digging, and never throw in the trowel. & For Abby who kept a portrait of Frida Kahlo in her ancient Honda, and always made me laugh.
For Liz Ferry! I’m so glad my late is your early!
Inspired by Kobe “Mamba” Bryant (1978-2020)—your life is your greatest work—it’s your masterpiece. It is not what a man professes, but how he lives, that shows what he truly believes. You lived and breathed the Mamba Mentality. Dedicated to Uncle Ricky (1948–2021)—I can still hear your voice saying, “Get it done, CPA.” I finished this book. I got it done. Motivated by Little Jeff—I held you in my arms as I wrote this dedication. I held you in my heart as I wrote this book. You are Black Excellence.
This book is dedicated to Charlotte Jane Corbett who will, with luck, choose my care home. Caveat emptor
Dedicated to my children Chadrick and Davita, Who are always in my heart and thoughts Chadrick and Davita, I miss our trips on the weekend exploring new areas of New York and Connecticut. I remember that, when I would get lost, you Chad were always so good with directions. Not one day goes by that I don’t think or talk about you guys. I love you and miss you so very much. My babies may have been taken from me physically, but they will never be taken from my heart.
This book is in memory of Saadat Hasan Manto, and it is dedicated to Khushwant Singh: for both travelled the routes of barbed wire between India and Pakistan and survived with their humanity and art intact.
For those who survive. For those who do not.
Dedicated to my brother Rollie: my closest friend, worthy rival, wise advisor, expert cannabis grower, and all-around wonderful guy. I will miss you.
To JESSE, HANS, KINCAID, and LOUDEN, my Buetow boys, with love and thanks and to the continent of Antarctica and all the hope it represents
This book is dedicated to my mother, Elizabeth Colson Golden (March 25, 1925–July 22, 2024) Who instilled in me a love of reading and respect for writing; never judged me when I wept for characters; and never, ever stopped being curious about the world. I love you, I miss you, and I wish you could read this one.
To The School Children and The Politicians— for the same reason
For Jesus, my resurrected love.
Augustine's Theology of the Resurrection by Augustine M. Reisenauer
For my mother, Omatee, on whose strong shoulders I have always stood, but not acknowledged enough, empowering me to say: Do Náiomi agus Teamhair, Tá súil agam go bhfágfaidh mé domhan níos fear do bhur todhchaí ná an domhan inar rugadh mé féin.
To all the women who refuse to settle for any man . . . unless she’s his #1
For my favorite lich, because all my books are, really.
To Burdette Ringgold, the father I knew best, and who dropped the wisdom on me with beneficent regularity. Without him, all our lives would have been an unimaginable tragedy. Forgive me for not having understood this before.
I would like to dedicate this autobiography in memory of my parents, my family members and more than three million Cambodian people who perished during the Khmer Rouge regime for three years, eight months and twenty days from 17 April 1975 until 7 January 1979.
To R. – fellow-traveller, midwife, greatest joy
For Kyle, Travis, Cassia, And for everyone I’ve ever met and loved, who made the unbearable a little softer, and the weight of living feel a little less heavy.
To Great-Grandma Rice, who would have been torn between being proud and scandalized
To Meika Thanks for talking me out of that tattoo of mashed potatoes
For Drew the Third, because when I said, “I’m never going to get published!” he said, “Do not make me buy a publishing company to publish your books, because I’ll do it, Savage!” I might be paraphrasing, but it’s still true.
For the people of Estelí, Nicaragua, who asked me to witness. I hope I haven’t failed you.
To my parents—who never loved me enough!
Ma, Creina, who taught us at a rock desk under an acacia yet filled our classes with the richness of culture and science, the magic of the bush around us, and the glory of our South African history Dad, Neil, who promised to prepare me to survive and thrive in Africa; you outdid yourself, Dad and Khonya, it’s been quite a ride out of that valley
This book is dedicated to Sergeant Sam, who gave his life, and to all the heroes of the rescue, from the Thai middle school volunteers to the international crew of cave divers. You accomplished the impossible. It is also written to honor the world’s undocumented and stateless refugees and migrants—may you all find safe and welcoming homes. The hands of rescue workers from around the world symbolize the spirit of cooperation that characterized the effort to save Coach Ek and the twelve young soccer players.
For Octavia Estelle Butler (1947-2006) Many dream of better worlds. Few help create them.
For the Lady C, Most Imperious Majesty of House KJ, the One to whom even the Opinionated Coonhound pays homage!
To the women who were called too much—too wild, too intense, too powerful. May you always choose the fire.
For Laney and Jack —MM To Harriet and Dred Scott and the many other enslaved parents whose extraordinary efforts protected their children and preserved their families in terrible circumstances —RN
To the sweet cinnamon rolls who have burnt edges. Be monstrous, my darling.
To my cat, who stepped on my keyboard while I was formatting the new edition of this book and deleted an entire chapter.
To my booktok girls who would follow the tattooed criminal into chaos without a second thought—this one's for you.
For the ones who were studied, silenced, or split and still chose to bloom. For every sister, survivor, and seeker who reassembled themselves in the quiet and dared to stay. You are the archive. You are the threshold. You are the unwritten.
For Joy, who kicked at my darkness until it bled daylight
This book is dedicated to my grandparents, Eva Yutkowitz Morowitz and Julius Morowitz, and to their siblings who remained in Stopnika and Chmielnik and perished in the Holocaust.
Art, Exhibition and Erasure in Nazi Vienna by Laura Morowitz
To my animal-loving, creative, funny, musical, label-defying wild child: I love you with my whole entire heart, plus my auxiliary heart.
to my son, Nathaniel, and to those who have perished trying to get to El Otro Lado
For my brother, David. Catcher of chameleons. Slapper of sunburns. Big Man posting up in Nerf Basketball. Gulper of Horseradish. I would not have survived our many moves without you.
For Sue, for Gill and Garth, to the memory of our first grandchild, Lily, so fleetingly embraced by her parents, Liz and Alastair.
To the memory of all the kids and teachers of the Waharoa Primary School who disappeared while swimming in the Great Waharoa Swamp. Also, to the memory of the enormous eels.
For the gig workers who drive through the night with invisible algorithms monitoring their every turn, For the welfare recipients denied their dignity by faceless scoring systems, For the defendants judged by machines before they enter the courtroom, For the families flagged as fraudulent by errors they cannot see or appeal, And for all those rendered invisible by the very systems designed to measure their worth— This book is your voice in the silence of the algorithm. "In memory of those who starved waiting for biometric verification, and in solidarity with those still fighting for transparency, fairness, and human dignity in an age when machines increasingly decide our fate."
For the ones who left in search of something better, the ones who stayed behind with silence, and the ones still caught between visas, voicemail, and the price of becoming someone new.
This book is dedicated to Granny Kath. When I got pregnant at nineteen you cried because you wanted me to ‘go places’. It took years and years to ‘go someplace’ and get a book deal, but I finally did it. Tyler Benjamin Washbrook-Reynolds 12th August 2017–29th August 2017 A Star Boy now.
For Jane, and all who nourish fond remorse
In Memory of Betrenia Watt Bowker “Aunt Teeny” who nourished the habit of thought
Dedicated to the forgotten children of Hadamar.
To all female gladiators—go for the kill!
For my dear Grandmother Florence from whom I inherited my creative DNA which nearly drove my beloved parents, Thelma and Gilbert mad, my family and friends who have listened to me talk about my book for the past 10 years ad nauseum and my long-suffering husband, Markus Pluss, who has put up with me writing about an affair with another man for the past 10 years.
To Josh, who is not the devil but who will still make me waffles, and to Julie's left hand.
To my friends killed climbing.
For Anna and Harry, who I couldn’t bear to leave, and for all the other mothers who so desperately wanted to stay, but who didn’t get the chance, especially Danni, Nicky and Ali xx
To the fond memory of my teacher and friend Marcellus Martyr. When I was a teenager skipping lunch to attend his eleventh-grade philosophy class, he put a copy of Plato’s Parmenides into my hands, and changed everything.
For Paul, for always, forever and In loving memory of Dawn Bennett sister-in-law, friend, and fan April 8, 1969–October 18, 2016 You were the audience I was writing for. I love you and miss you
For Tookie Flystock, my beloved serial insect killer.
To my favorite atheist, Danny Klein: oldest and dearest friend for over sixty years, collaborator on several books, mentor on this one, raised a secular Jew, but a man to whom I often say, “You’re a better Christian than I am, my friend.”
FOR ALL THE BLACK GIRLS FINDING THEIR VOICES—I’M LISTENING.
To Doris Dunbar Collins and Maggie Lee Taylor, whose unending struggles never dimmed their hope for a brighter future for their children. In honor of my father, who witnessed the most pivotal moment in American history—Hiroshima and Nagasaki—and to my grandparents, who were steadfast Fayette County pioneers.
To the real Nurse Allison. Through the horrible months of my treatment, you were always an angel in scrubs. Les and I would have never made it through chemo without you.
For Grandpa Chet, These pages contain perhaps the only words he didn’t have. My shelter, as well as my challenge. And for Kathryn, who rebuilt the world.
To those of us tasked with breaking intergenerational curses— It’s a shitty, painful job, but it’s worth it.
TO SONJA, LYDIA, MOLLY— tolerant pynes who made room for gums
In memory of my father, who gave me my first job when I was five and taught me how to be the best pencil sharpener the world would ever know. And in honor of my mother, who has supported me in everything I’ve ever done.
For Ciarán MacMathúna who owns the world that I wandered through
This story is dedicated to Cathy, for all the wrong reasons. I'm so glad I'm away from you forever.
With glaive-guisarmes raised in memory of Dave Arneson & E. Gary Gygax.
Dedicated to my sister, Alli. Who I felt in no way obligated to dedicate this book to after she dedicated her last book to me. Especially since I dedicated my last book to the cat. Anyway, I’m still not apologising for when I was fourteen and turned the power off to the house when you were listening to The Cure. Fight me.
For Beatrice— Our love broke my heart, and stopped yours.
A Series of Unfortunate Events #9: The Carnivorous Carnival by Lemony Snicket
This book is dedicated to the mysterious young man who touched my elbow in Victoria Gardens, Calcutta, and to Meher Baba, who made him do it.
For all the women whose murders end up on page six.
To my Big Sky family and my favorite Christmas tree laccolith
To the men and women of the WWII GHQ Auxiliary Units – both civilian and military – who volunteered for dangerous secret service when Great Britain most needed them – and who were then allowed to disappear without recognition. Almost.
To the memory of Medgar Evers, and his widow and children, and to the memory of the dead children of Birmingham.
For my father, Richard Stevens Saloman (28 August 1952–8 October 2019) Who so often—and so unstintingly—gave up his own view to others Preachers or scientists may generalize, but we know that no generality is possible about those whom we love; not one heaven awaits them, not even one oblivion. —E.M. Forster, Howards End
For Danaë, without whom Another Now would be unimaginable and This Now intolerable
To those who listen in the spaces —between data points, in static hush —may your curiosity never rest, and may wonder always blush.
Spectral Science: Tales Beyond the Known by Brinda Phokeerdass
To love, our most powerful ally. And to every grave marked ‘unknown’ in Flanders Fields.
Dedicated to the teacher who banned me from Sunday school when I was twelve. I’m sorry for drawing the poster to Return of the Living Dead Part II when you asked for an image of what resurrection meant to me.
TO COLONIALISM: you suck
To my son, “Little Rubes,” to the brothers of Chapter Thirteen, and to the greatest fighting force on motorcycles, the Mongols MC
This book is dedicated to a little girl with haunting eyes who vanished from her home in Fort Knox, Kentucky, and was never seen again and to another little girl who saw it all and went to the police when she grew up with the shocking story of what really happened to her little sister.
To Mom and Dad: Thank you for your love. You have shown me a sense of place, grace, and hope while not conforming to our history, and for that I remain forever grateful. To Professor Jonathan L. Walton, Bertha, Gil, Cody, and Josh Hamilton, and in faithful memory of Gilbert Hamilton, who collectively changed how I view race, the South, and everything we hold dear down here: You are the reason I committed pen to paper; you are all saints of a living God.
For Khachig, with good reason
To the late Stu Inman, longtime NBA executive and dear friend, and to Ernie Accorsi, recently retired NFL executive and my friend of almost fifty years. These two souls of steel have modeled character to me for decades.
This book is dedicated to my children, Cole and Lorelai, for whom I would do anything. Except clean your bathroom because you guys are gross.
In memory of Jim Williams, a poet who wrote in electronics.
to rechurch (in memoriam) “For a breathless moment in time, a little group of diverse peoples was caught up in a dream as old as life and as new as a hope that just emerges on the horizon of becoming [human].” —Howard Thurman, With Head and Heart
For the ones who carry their pain quietly,who whisper into pillows, sketchbooks, and screens.For the teens who believe they're unseen —this story belongs to you.
Special Thanks to Anita K Narendra Dedicated to the most loving person in my life… NIKHIL CHOUDHARY (Inspector Excise and Custom) From 21st February 1989 to 23rd March 2019.
For my brothers, Bob and Kent, who were there at my beginning. In memory of Sally Hill and Don and Colleen Keyworth, who guided my becoming.
I dedicate this book to my wife Dawn. Without you, there would be no Lotus. Without you, there would be no me. The journey we're on would not be possible without your true passion for dance and for that I could not be more grateful. I love you.
Harrison Subvers!ve Dunnett 1996-2016 Singer, Songwriter, Poet The title Dance with Angels was inspired by TobMac’s beautiful song 21 Years.
Dance with Angels: A Journey of Grief & Healing by Warwick Dunnett
For Liam and Emmett, because nice guys can finish first.
Dedicated to the nine passengers who died in the car accident near Siamungala, Zambia, on 14 June 1999
For Norah and Hadley May this world not be your own
For Jay MillAr In thanks for building the house of BookThug, one magical brick at a time.
I dedicate this book to my cousin Cécile Rosental, time-travel companion, and to the memory of my masters Jean Rivier, Marcel Baleste and Bernard Lepetit.
To everyone who ever finished a trilogy: hi, I’m new here. To everyone who feels daunted at the prospect: keep at it.
For my father, Baruch (“Benny”) Burston “Bis a hunderdt und tzvanzig!”
For my foremothers, Isabella, Quessie, and Arthalia
In Memory of Levi Noah Nochasak Wolf of Labrador Hebron Star
To the countless nameless victims of crime, caught in the ripple effects of others’ unthinkably selfish deeds.
This book is dedicated to all of the people who’ve truly inspired me. I’ve never met any of them: this is an unambiguously self-interested, but ultimately certainly futile, attempt to get one of them to phone me. This book is for Arsène Wenger, PG Wodehouse (not around, but with that brain, probably capable of emailing me from beyond), Michelle Obama, the entire Earth, Wind and Fire band (come on – EVERYONE loves them), Judi Dench, Paul McCartney, Tim Minchin and John Oliver. Call me…
For Camille Inez Chalifoux — I can't wait to teach you how to catch bluegills off the dock.
To those dreamers who have already gone on to the Final Frontier: Majel Barrett Harve Bennett Gene L. Coon James Doohan DeForest Kelley Leonard Nimoy Gene Roddenberry Grace Lee Whitney
In memory of Umberto Eco and Amilcare A. Iannucci My esteem for you shall live forever.
A Semiotics of Multimodality and Signification in the Divine Comedy by Raffaele De Benedictis
This novel is dedicated to mother Earth and to women who have suffered the ingratitude of their counterparts from time immemorial; to men who have feminine energy within them. To Osho, who helped me regain my dance and my laughter, both of which were lost to me with my childhood.
To Mom and Dad, who named me Roseanna To Nanny, who named me Banana Boat To Brittney, who named me Annie To Jennifer, who named me Pooky To David, who named me Hunny To Xoë and Rowyn, who named me Mommy To Stephanie, who named me Ro And to the Lord, who whispered in my ear, “Mine.” The sweetest name of all.
This book is dedicated to my wife, Joan, and my children, Jessie and Sarah. Memories of our love will bridge the divide until you join me on the other side!
For Meatball. And my secret lover, Sizzlehips.
To my beautiful and understanding wife, Tara. Thank you for being the adult while I lost myself in this project.
For Habiba provider of mulūkhiyyah and wisdom with thanks and love and in memory of Leslie Valentine Grinsell, O.B.E., F.S.A. (1907–1995) connoisseur of pyramids and tumuli teacher of the ancient characters
For every woman whose story has gone untold And mostly, for A the greatest adventure of them all
For Abi E, who asked for this story in the beginning and blazed the way with kindness.
For Maria Sansevero, most beautiful dentist on the planet and source of more weird creatures than you would ever guess
For those who suffer unknown, unheard and unseen, on behalf of others; especially those whose suffering has been forgotten by those for whom they suffered. What others say I also say. –Lao Tzu
To V. Everything. Everything. Everything. Is for you.
To Richard, my heart. And to Charlie and Sam, my world. Find me here.
This book is dedicated to my parents, Robert and Kathryn Simmons, and to my wife Karen’s parents, Verne and Ruth Logerquist. It is also dedicated to my brothers, Wayne and Ted Simmons, and to Karen’s brother, Jim Logerquist, and sister Sally Lampe. Most of all, this book is dedicated to Karen and to our daughter, Jane Kathryn, who are Wamakaognaka e’cantge—“the heart of everything that is” for me. Hecetu. Mitakuye oyasin. So be it—all my relatives! Every one of us.
To Nigel Findley. My own Shadowrun mentor spirit, whose memory has always granted me a few bonus dice on writing rolls. I hope you don’t mind, but I shuffled together your elves and your detectives.
This book is dedicated to my mother, for not laughing when I told her I wanted to be a writer; to Jenn, for putting up with my doubts, my fears and my dangling participles; and to Kris, for believing in this story when I didn’t.
For the quiet ones— the dreamers, the thinkers, the invisible souls who sometimes wish the world would go silent… but deep down know, we were never meant to be alone.
Be Careful What You Wish For: When the World Went Quiet by Michael Slabicki
For my dad, Ted, who never saw my first book published. You were my first hero.
This work is dedicated to our current generation of American scientists, toiling as ever on the frontier of knowledge and carrying now the hopes for a second American Century to political frontiers at home and abroad
For Barbara, She-Who-Walks-Like-Deer, who first took me up into the sandstone bluffs above the Mississippi to show me the wonders there. For John, without whom there would have been neither vision nor understanding.
A Guide to the Archaeology Parks of the Upper Midwest by Deborah Morse-Kahn
To everyone who remembers what radicalized them
To Linda, who has brought the sun along everywhere we have travelled for longer than I can remember
For Tisha and in memory of the militiamen of King Philip’s War
Dedicated to the memory of Robert William Grantham, Sailor on a Concrete Sea Smart lad, to slip betimes away From fields where glory does not stay, And early though the laurel grows It withers quicker than the rose… — A. E. Housman
Along The Shadow Line: A Road Trip through History and Memory on the Old Confederate Border by H.V. Traywick
For Dorian. For everything.
This book is dedicated to my husband, Andrew Meredith. You are my lodestar. I love you more than you love me.
For Nono, who took my advice and married Nona Μικρό μου Καστελλόριζο είστε ένα μαργαριτάρι
Love forever to my real-live sister, Charlotte, who died two months before her 100th birthday. SC
To Sage and Parker, my life’s greatest gifts, and to the women who persist. —R.B.V. To every activist who survives and speaks, Maureen and Dan for your constant friendship, and my beloved son Moses, as he becomes a new man. —M.S.
For my mother, Blanche Wronowski Sefton, whose Polish blood is her romantic-democratic wellspring. And for my father, John Richard Sefton (1917 to 1994), who died while I was in Africa.
To Mom and Mike, who built things with me. To my daughter Courtney, who I built things with. And to my grandson Jed, who will one day build things with skills handed down from all of us.
To my sister, always being supportive and feeding my dirty little mind with ideas. Love you, you kinky bitch.
This book is dedicated to my loving father Edward C. Harris (September 29, 1922–February 5, 2001), on whose birthday I finished this manuscript, and who taught me about faith, love, loyalty, and celebrating difference; and to Greg Dimitriadis (August 27, 1969–December 29, 2014), whose creative and heartful scholarship has influenced me and so many others, and who has left us far too soon.
To Christina Harris—my best friend and soul “sis-star”! Here is to our misty water-colored memories of reading astrology books at Borders over iced coffee and realizing it was the stars that made us this way. I love you and am so happy to share this lifetime with you!
This volume is dedicated to clearing the air of the misperception that intestinal gas is anything other than a normal physiologic process common to all humanity. Nature and natural processes should be universally accepted as one of the cherished principles of fundamental human rights. The pursuit of health and happiness, and the accessible knowledge and resources of how to do so, should be available to all. I am indebted to my loved ones Nancy, Danielle, Jeremy, Courie, Lizzy, & Indy. They have offered their insights, suggestions, comments, and unwavering support throughout the long process of having this project finally come to pass. You will always be the mighty wind beneath my wings.
For Mikie. I still miss you every day.
To the Children of the Nuclear Age
To my wife Carol, my Hawaiian Flower, who I would never have met if it were not for flying
For the Quayistas and our Friday evenings. Thanks for getting me through again.
For Palestinian, Indonesian, and Global South Muslim women, who have struggled to decolonize injustice and white supremacy through their stories, Islamic heritage, and sisterhood. For the memory of my parent.
For all four million people in Los Angeles, except that one guy who cut me off in traffic today. - Sarah
To our furry soulmates, who contributed to this book more than one could think. Tibo 2008–2023 Chengis 2008–2021
Sensitivity Analysis for Business, Technology, and Policymaking by Unknown author
To our ancestors whose sacrifices, pain, and suffering gave birth to our potential. May we never forget them.
Road of Ash and Dust: Awakening of a Soul in Africa by E.L. Cyrs
To those for whom a glimpse was not enough.
For hope and joy And for Edie, River, and Kestrel, Who make it real
This is for my family, who have endured countless readings of my warped bits of humour, just to see if they got it. It is also for the people from the real house on Beverley Street who I met during that life-altering summer. And finally, it is for John who has been my friend since we were both six years old. Now, fifty years later and half a world apart, we still remain joined at the funny-bone.
To Rosmarie, whose intellectual and emotional support was the ‘Wājib al-Wujūd’ of this research
The 'Metaphysica' of Avicenna (ibn Sīnā) by Parviz Morewedge
To all the unsung heroes that have fallen in countless wars throughout our time. And Io, do I see my father And Io, do I see my mother And my sisters and my brothers And the line of my people, Back to the beginning… And Io, they do call me, In the halls of Valhalla Where the brave may live forever! From an old Viking war prayer (unattributed).
This book is dedicated to our families, friends, lovers, agents, managers, and dealers.
As always, this book is dedicated to my wife, Joanne, and my late mother, Susan Avison Craven. Without either, this book wouldn’t exist.
To Jon Michael and Carter. You’ve given my life new meaning. I love you.
To my parents, Wally and Lea, and to Abe and Gus, my little old men
To Wings. Never let anyone stop you from flying. To Sue. Oh Captain, my Captain.
For my patient, supportive and grounded husband Adam, who certainly lives up to the meaning of his name: earth.
To Carol Ross, Cari Lynn Webb, Amy Vastine and Anna J. Stewart. For all we talk circles around plot for each installment, for all we bicker about what we want to see as a happy ending, at the end of the day, we are still sisters—stronger because we’ve been through this ride together. And to our Blackwell editor, Kathryn Lye, who puts up with us all. Love you, ladies!
To the boys in the basement. Not Stephen King’s boys. Mine. Here’s to getting the band back together.
To Natalie Haimowitz, PhD, who taught me about love.
For George and Mariam Verghese Scribere jussit amor
To Carisa – for dialing that number
Dedicated to the people of Jalisco and to the beloved memories of Tomás Estes, José Luís González Partida, Javier Delgado Corona, and Berta Torres Mireles
To my mom, Sallie Chapman, who told me I could do anything I set my mind to, and to my dad, Wayne Slocum, who never quite figured out what I actually do but was proud of me nonetheless.
For Helena Chaya, light of my life
For Deborah and Herb Though lovers be lost love shall not; And death shall have no dominion. Dylan Thomas “And Death Shall Have no Dominion” May 1, 2014
Dedicated to the ones who have stared addiction in the face and found their place to heal.
This book, in which I share my thoughts on adolescent health, is dedicated to my parents (who knew me as an adolescent), to my husband (who did not but whose wisdom about life and teens continues to inspire me), to my three sons and their wives (who taught me to love adolescents and adolescence), and to my three grandchildren (who are now infants), who will provide me with ongoing purpose, dedication to and interest in the adolescent years.
Fast Facts on Adolescent Health for Nursing and Health Professionals by Judith Herrman
To my wife, Trish, for her high-limit state of endurance, to my daughters, Neena and Beena, for their love of teaching, and to the memory of my parents, Sundar Bai and Bhagwan Das Taly, this book is dedicated.
For Brea, who turns chaotic ramblings into polished prose.
For My Family and Friends and the storytellers of my life: George, Hope, Ann, John, and Valdemar Sr. Your stories weaved a web of suspense and intrigue that inspired me to write.
For my wild, creative global family. If I knew every word of every language, there still wouldn’t be enough to say how much I love you.
For my lovely wife, Amy, who watched all the movies, loved most of them, and made the entire process not only possible, but also a pleasure.
Fast, Cheap & Under Control: Lessons Learned from the Greatest Low-Budget Movies of All Time (20th Anniversary Special Edition) by John Gaspard
To Bec Tilbury. Thank you for always encouraging me to write, for truly knowing me, and for accepting me exactly as I am. Your belief in me has been a constant light, and your support has carried me further than words can capture. To my sister. Thank you for breaking the cycle and for growing into the beautiful woman you are.
For Bob before me and Sam after
To Justice Thurgood Marshall, who taught me almost everything worth knowing, and to my students, who filled in the rest —R.L.B. To my longtime colleagues and friends, Jim Gibson and Jack Knight —L.E. To Floyd Abrams —A.L. To my daughter and most important student, Olive Martin —A.D.M
To a wonderful wife and marvellous, uncomplaining mother.
To Rob For all the advice and for being a great older brother
To Mary Jo, Eva, and Joseph Sorry this took so long
For my wife, Miki. “Zutto zutto”
For Lara, Janice, Harper, Laurie, Jenni, Elisabeth, Virginia and Nicole. Thank you for all the love, support and reassurance. Thanks also to all the dedicated readers in our Facebook club. The Unlaced Historical Romance Group is one of my favorite (virtual) places.
This book is dedicated to the Ordinary American. For you are the repository of freedom.
For Helen, Alistair and Ged All author profits from the sale of Cricket Wonderful Cricket will be donated to The Lord’s Taverners.
For the real Frances L. Neagley