Photo credit: Gabriel Max Starner
Literary dedications are a strange genre of writing. They’re a relatively contemporary expectation. Surely not all works of literature were made for a single human? A book feels too large of a thing to give away to someone. I often think about how other art forms don’t have the expectation of dedications. Paintings don’t require a note about whom the painting was made for. And surely some paintings an artist makes for themselves? Or, some paintings an artist makes and doesn’t know if the painting was made for anyone, or for any purpose at all?
I know some books, and some works of art, are made for a specific person, in their image, or in their honor, but this wasn’t the case with
Belly Up...