Dedicating a book is merely rhetoric.
One offers one’s life up to one’s country,
or one gives that same country back to the people –
all just the vain and empty juggling of language.
Despite the fraud of making a present,
every book is like the magician’s flying knife –
it hits its mark without ever leaving the hand.
The work is of the author’s belonging,
no matter how he or she thinks to bestow it.
This book doesn’t need such disingenuousness,
being, it seems to me, just a trifle.
With this thought in mind, I haven’t troubled myself
with a dedication, although there may be one
who perhaps would have deserved such a thing.
- Chien Chung-Shu, dedication to Fortress Besieged -
[Previous: Epigraph]
[Next: History as a Moveable Bead on a Timeline]