To those excellent good fellows and eminent comedians David C. Montgomery and Fred A. Stone whose clever personifications of the Tin Woodman and the Scarecrow have delighted thousands of children throughout the land, this book is gratefully dedicated by The Author
To Leon Werth. I ask the indulgence of the children who may read this book for dedicating it to a grown-up. I have a serious reason: he is the best friend I have in the world. I have another reason: this grown-up understands everything, even books about children. I have a third reason: he lives in France where he is hungry and cold. He needs cheering up. If all these reasons are not enough, I will dedicate the book to the child from whom this grown-up grew. All grown-ups were once children-- although few of them remember it. And so I correct my dedication: To Leon Werth When he was a little boy
For Ezra Pound: il miglior fabbro
You know how it is. You pick up a book, flip to the dedication, and find that, once again, the author has dedicated a book to someone else and not to you. Not this time. Because we haven't yet met/have only a glancing acquaintance/are just crazy about each other/haven't seen each other in much too long/are in some way related/will never meet, but will, I trust, despite that, always think fondly of each other.... This one’s for you. With you know what, and you probably know why.
The idea for this book was suggested by a boy in a school I was visiting, who asked me to write a book called the Moving Castle. I wrote down his name and put it in such a safe place, I have been unable to find it ever since. I would like to thank him very much.
This book is gratefully dedicated to my children. My mother and my wife taught me how to be a man. My children taught me to be free. NAOMI RACHEL KING, at fourteen; JOSEPH HILLSTROM KING, at twelve; OWEN PHILIP KING, at seven. Kids, fiction is the truth inside the lie, and the truth of this fiction is simple enough: the magic exists.
To the men of Robben Island and the free South Africa they helped to create.
For Diana Quickly, bring me a bottle of whiskey, so that I may wet my mind and say something clever. – A Tennessee Aristophanes
My Dear Lucy, I wrote this story for you, but when I began it I had not realized that girls grow quicker than books. As a result you are already too old for fairy tales, and by the time it is printed and bound you will be older still. But some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again. You can then take it down from some upper shelf, dust it, and tell me what you think of it. I shall probably be too deaf to hear, and too old to understand, a word you say, but I shall still be your affectionate Godfather...
In token of my admiration for his genius, this book is inscribed to Nathaniel Hawthorne
This book is dedicated to my ninja/agent, Jodi Reamer. Thank you for keeping me off the ledge. And thanks also to my favorite band, the very aptly named Muse, for providing a saga’s worth of inspiration.
To my dear son Paul Bland behind whose knowledge of railways my ignorance confidently shelters
They may be called the Palace Guard, the City Guard, or the Patrol. Whatever the name, their purpose in any work of heroic fantasy is identical: it is, round Chapter Three (or ten minutes into the film) to rush into the room, attack the hero one at a time, and be slaughtered. No one ever asks them if they wanted to. This book is dedicated to those fine men. And also to Mike Harrison, Mary Gentle, Neil Gaiman and all the others who assisted with and laughed at the idea of L-Space; too bad we never used Schrödinger's Paperback...
To the Right Honourable Mr. Pitt. Sir, Never poor Wight of a Dedicator had less hopes from his Dedication, than I have from this of mine; for it is written in a bye corner of the kingdom, and in a retir'd thatch'd house, where I live in a constant endeavour to fence against the infirmities of ill health, and other evils of life, by mirth; being firmly persuaded that every time a man smiles,—but much more so, when he laughs, it adds something to this Fragment of Life. I humbly beg, Sir, that you will honour this book, by taking it—(not under your Protection,—it must protect itself, but)—into the country with you; where, if I am ever told, it has made you smile; or can conceive it has beguiled you of one moment's pain—I shall think myself as happy as a minister of state;—perhaps much happier than any one (one only excepted) that I have read or heard of. I am, Great Sir, (and, what is more to your Honour) I am, Good Sir, Your Well-wisher, and most humble Fellow-subject, The Author
Dedicated to those sweet ladies, gay Lotharios, and lunkhead bartenders whose fancy concoctions of spirits fermenti have made this volume possible.
To my daughter Leonora, without whose never-failing sympathy and encouragement this book would have been finished in half the time.