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Dreamt up by https://x.com/lllliatttt, made real by @stefan 📚 This one’s for you. 🌉 bridged from ⁂ https://stefanbohacek.online/@dedication_bot, follow @ap.brid.gy to interact

To Jeff LaHoste, without whom beauty would be impossible

This book is respectfully dedicated to the memory of a man who was absolutely committed to his work, who affirmed life in every way, who was utterly and completely himself and through these qualities could be and was a joyous parent.
JOHN FITZGERALD KENNEDY

For Katarina, Tonya, Surya,
and all the other badass women who've shown me
what it means to win on your own terms.

This book is dedicated to Professor Jim Miller, who taught me that it can never be too big, it can never be too splashy, and that life is infinitely better with a tap-dancing chorus. Thank you for being the first adult to see my funny, and give me a home and a stage to let my funny fly.

For Mary Roy, who grew me up. Who taught me to say "excuse me" before interrupting her in Public. Who loved me enough to let me go. For LKC, who, like me, survived.

For my grandmother,
who knew I was a poet
even before I knew it myself.

To the friends who lent me money and kept me mercifully unemployed. No writer can function without them. Again, thanks. HST
The idea for this book came from Carey McWilliams, editor of The Nation, who asked me to write an article on the weird phenomenon of motorcycle gangs. The article appeared in The Nation in April 1965. Carey's ideas and suggestions gave the book a framework and perspective that it might not otherwise have had.

To the book's narrators, who courageously and generously shared their stories, often at risk to their own lives, and to the millions of other displaced Colombians, whose stories remain untold.

For Hiroya, and for all the residents of the Chelsea, past and present, living—and having passed on to that great bohemian flophouse in the sky

To the ones who lived, the ones who didn't, and the future we are building for all of us.

For the men. For some of the men.

To all my family

There are bird tracks
And nothing in the sky;
Something lived, left,
And left something.

For Ari, Noah, and Quinn: my teachers, my inspirations, and my reasons for pursuing an ever-greater understanding of what it means to love and be loved.

For Rosa Bell, my mother—
who told me when I was a child that she had once written poems—
that I had inherited my love of reading and my longing to write from her.

To Ari, Xander, and Luke, who will know the future.
To my parents, David McAfee and Nancy Haller, who prepared me for the second machine age by giving me every advantage a person could have.

To Luis, and all the great years eating tapas together

Dedicated to the queerness
in each of us

To all the fallen in our common cause,
and to the surviving, scars and all, clamorous or hidden.
To all my stoically resigned children.
And to my wife, Adefolake, who, during the season of a deadly dictatorship, demoted me from the designation of Visiting Professor to that of Visiting Spouse, but was still left with only an Invisible Spouse as I was swallowed by my study even during visiting hours.

For John Hawkes, who, standing beside me in a dream one night long ago, long before we'd become friends, and remarking upon another author's romanticization of autumn (there seemed to be hundreds of them actually, stooped over, on the endless tree-lined streets before us), observed wistfully: “It's so true, people still do that, you know, count the dead leaves. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, three, four..."

For Dahvi, the house where my heart lives.

For Sam, Maya, and Mohamed.
Thank you for loving me, believing in me, and inspiring me to be a good ancestor.
I love you.
This is for you.

In memory of Lester Levy, 1920-2017. Sorry you didn't see that Super Bowl, Dad.

to those who crave solitude

For Caspian, who might really be Sirius

TO MY PARENTS,
WHO SAVED THE VERY FIRST CORK,
AND TO MY AUNT MARLENE,
WHO SAVED THE LAST

This book is for anyone who needs a love story of being alone

for Nap, who made my tiny patch of world so much brighter

For Martín von Hildebrand, friend and brother, who more than any other allowed me to see and understand the ways of a forest that fires the hearts of all good people of the world

For the survivors and victims of the world's forgotten wars

For my great-grandmother and her daughter, survivors of the Armenian genocide, and my grandfather's family members, survivors of the Holocaust

IN MEMORIAM
BIG BARNEY BAKER
WHO HEARD MUCH, TOLD LITTLE

To those invincible, unseen guides: Spirit, Heart, Ancestors, Angels, Orishas, who often whisper with oh so soft, gentle nudges, and then, when absolutely required, heavy, blistering jolts...

To my offspring:
Angela Lanette, Ernest Ohene Kitiwa, and Dafina Toussainte
And through their respective journeys
May you forever be a light unto yourself

What wild and unearned luck to have been born to parents who believed that there were no limits to what a girl could do and who once let me shop for a coveted and overpriced Madame Alexander doll in a feverish haze.

I am so grateful on both counts.
This book is dedicated to them.

For the lucky few who are indivisible by 2 or 3 or 4...

To our son, Leo Achor, who broadcasted love even before finding the words. He broke open my heart, making me love the rest of the world more deeply than ever before.

For the wives,
who know this story as well as I do

To my mom and dad, John and Elinor Couric, for raising me with patience and humor
and my daughters, Ellie and Carrie Monahan, for teaching me the importance of both

To Lauren.
Every book, every line,
every word, is because of you,
you dork.

For Emilio,
my family,
and,
anti-imperialists everywhere.

This volume is dedicated to my grandmother Sumayyah Khoury, who taught me solidarity by example when her family, among many families in Nazareth, hid and housed the people of Saffuriyeh when their village was destroyed by Israeli forces in 1948. Thank you for teaching us how to live together.

For Jamie, my partner in crime (writing)

To
Ainsworth Phillips
and to all who confront both racism and homophobia
every day of their lives

To Booker T. Washington, from whose autobiography, UP FROM SLAVERY, which I read as a child in the 1920s, I learned the meaning of empathy.

To Paul Robeson, from whose lifelong struggle on behalf of his people and of working people around the world I learned the meaning of the word hero.

To Dean Dixon, from whose frustration over being denied permanent conductorship of a major orchestra in the United States because of his color I learned the meaning of black rage.

To the Joint Veterans' Council of Peekskill, New York, from whose instigation of mob violence to prevent a concert by Paul Robeson (the first of the two 1949 "riots") I learned firsthand the meaning of the fear for one's life that accompanies ugly hatred, racial insults, and physical attack.

To Zola G., the hard-working young black single mother from whose sharing of her history and her dreams I learned the importance of the dignity without which she "would slowly and surely die."

To Eddie Vanderlip, from whose...

For the survivors

"I always had the impression that we were a strange family, neither rich nor poor, much richer than the poor and much poorer than the rich, with a garden that was like a garden for the rich but a dark toilet where fungi grew." - Natalia Ginzburg, Childhood

In memory of my grandfather, a lifelong gardener.
And for my parents in honour of their years of weekends in the garden, raking leaves, pulling out weeds and creating beauty.

Dedicated to all the cats in my life.

For Kristy
A genuine friend, longtime encourager, and powerful advocate. Thanks for the decade of laughs and truth telling. I'm down for another one.

For the more than one billion people who, through no fault of their own, go to sleep hungry each night; and for the three billion more who will most likely arrive on this planet over the next forty years to join them in their suffering, if nothing changes.

For two dreams.

For anyone who has ever
braved the underworld

To those who, seeing the vice and misery that spring from the unequal distribution of wealth and privilege, feel the possibility of a higher social state and would strive for its attainment

San Francisco, March, 1879.

TO MY WIFE

Who is the creator of the most charming character in this story, "Mrs. Godd," and who positively refuses to permit the book to go to press until it has been explained that the character is a Grecian Godd and not a Hebrew Godd, so that no one may accuse the creator of sacrilege.

To dearest Martha and Tom,
Makers of pie and buildings

This translation is dedicated
to the people of Gaza

In memory of my mother, Dorothy Elizabeth McMahon—my co-conspirator, my teller of tales, my blue-eyed newt.

I know we'll meet again; you'll be waiting one day, with a bottle of gin and a smile. We'll climb into your old Vega, crank the radio as loud as it can go, and ride right on our into the stars.

"Alchemically transforming lead into true gold, men are given the opportunity to burn, to be touched by an inner fire, to live a life of substance, to be changed utterly."

This book is dedicated to the memory of my grandfather, Gus Oldham-burning, a heart on fire, whose love, stronger than death, illuminates.

To Mother Nature, who sometimes makes it hard, but always makes it worthwhile

This book is for John and for Quintana

In honor of those who lived

For Ada Starling Perez, the best sleeper in our family