Welcome to my page of quotations that are from dedications and other front matter in books. When authors put a little extra effort and creativity into those often overlooked areas of books rather than simply writing “For Someone,” they adorn the entryway to their stories with a welcoming porch light and garland.
For Beatrice —
Dead women tell no tales.
Sad men write them down.
~Lemony Snicket, The Grim Grotto, 2004
to those who
~K.Y. Robinson, The Chaos of Longing, 2017
This book is dedicated to
MY SON, GUY JOHNSON,
and all the strong
black birds of promise
who defy the odds and gods
and sing their songs
~Maya Angelou, I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, 1969
For my wife, our daughters, and our parents, and to the unending wonder of the continuum
~Nicholas A. Basbanes, A Splendor of Letters, 2003
To the Spirit:
Without whose assistance
Neither this book
Would have been
~Alice Walker, The Color Purple, 1982
LYMAN BEECHER, D.D.
To you I owe more than to any other living being. In childhood, you were my Parent; in later life, my Teacher; in manhood, my Companion…
~Henry Ward Beecher, Lectures to Young Men, on Various Important Subjects, 1844
To Tim, with love —
so that the whole world will know
how much you mean to me
~Jodi Picoult, Salem Falls, 2001
For Tim, because I am at home in your heart
~Ellery Adams, Poisoned Prose, 2013
Lady Bird Johnson
Not all the soldiers were in Vietnam.
This one was in the White House.
~Rita Mae Brown, Dolley, 1994
To those who see trees.
~Douglas Wood, The Things Trees Know, 2005
All the characters and incidents described herein are fictitious — and I am actually the long-missing Crown Prince Alexis, rightful heir to the throne of all the Russias. ~Gerald Raftery (1905–1986), The natives are always restless, 1964 [disclaimer in front matter
To the men and women who wrote this book,
and speak to us here and now, of things without time;
and those who speak to us, here and now, from beyond the stars
~John K. Terres, Things Precious & Wild, 1991
To mom and dad,
for filling my head with endless dreams,
my hands with endless books,
and my heart with endless love.
~Kelseyleigh Reber, If I Resist, 2015
I dedicate this novel to my father,
JOACHIM ALBERT WOLFGANG GEORGE,
known as Broad Jo…
you were the only person who read everything I ever
wrote from the moment I learned to write. I will miss
you at all times. I see you in every ray of evening
light and in every wave of every sea.
You left in midsentence.
~Nina George, The Little Paris Bookshop, translated by Simon Pare, 2015
my great-grandchildren, Katherine, David and Stephen — the last of whom just arrived as this goes to press. When they grow up and start paying on the public debt bequeathed them by this de-generation, may they find something herein to cheer them up and help them forget and forgive what we are now doing to them!
~J. W. Cunningham, Corn on the Cob, 1952
This book is published by the author. Brickbats, bouquets and orders — all equally welcome — may be addressed to: J.W. Cunningham, Robinwood Ave, Toledo 10, O. ~J. W. Cunningham, Corn on the Cob, 1952 [correspondence address notice in front matter
To all those who struggle to care for aging parents, may God grant you love and grace beyond your wildest dreams… ~Lauraine Snelling, On Hummingbird Wings, 2011
With whom I listen to the birds,
name the wild flowers,
and count the stars.
~Hal Borland, This World of Wonder, 1973
For Barbara, especially in Autumn
I gave you emeralds in May and amethysts in June;
July I gave you turquoise skies and silver stars and moon.
December will bring Diamonds, but before the frosty cold
I give you coal-hot rubies and October’s molten gold.
~Hal Borland, Sundial of the Seasons, 1964
At turn of year, when winter’s past
and spring’s at hand, I think at last
I understand. Then comes the night
when peepers shrill and geese in flight
gabble the moon. And then I say
that all I know can be stowed away
in an acorn cup. But this is plain:
That snow is snow and rain is rain,
that wind is change, that water ran
before earth felt the foot of man;
that flesh and blood of me are kinned
with grass and bush and tree and wind;
that love is sweet and salt are tears;
that days become the turning years;
that I am new and time is old;
that love is warm and hate is cold.
What more is there to understand
when winter’s past and spring’s at hand?
~Hal Borland, Hal Borland’s Book of Days, 1976