Over Christmas I read Once Again, To Zelda a collection of essays on dedications in novels. The stories behind the dedications were enthralling but left me incredibly angry.
I don’t want to know one of my childhood heroes may have slept with her father (note, I’m not referring to Anais Nin – I don’t think she was anyone’s childhood hero), or that a national icon abandoned his pregnant wife on a whim.
Almost all the tales featured heartbreak, including Herman Melville’s relationship with Nathaniel Hawthorne. The doomed tale of the two men led me to read Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, so something good came from it..
