At many places in the writing of this book – a book about texts, and about textual culture, and about the peculiarly and painfully self-conscious sort of writing by which these texts are dedicated and this culture is defined – I have not been entirely sure what it is I need to do (or rather, to write) in order to make my point. This, I am happy to say, is not one of them (I attribute this fortuity to the fact that I have read several books myself). This is the part of the book where I am, first, to write of the deeply personal origins of this work. This is the part of the book where I am, second, to detail for you the ways in which these origins blossomed into the text you hold in your hands. This is the part of the book where I am, third, to thank solemnly the many people who saw this work to its fruition. This is the part of the book where I am, fourth, to express my deep affection for the many people in my life whose friendship, advice, and patience saw me through this work. In other words, this is the part of the book where I am to engage in a process of dedication. And so this is what I shall do.