Written by Philip Watson, Head of International Rights Acquisitions at Thames and Hudson.

‘The strangest thing,’ said my friend of the latest Booker winner: ‘Did you know David Szalay’s Flesh has no acknowledgements?’

There is a fragile moment when you reach the end of the book you’re reading: the final sentence rings in your ears as you fold the book shut, your imagination quivering with the joy/sadness/enigma of the ending, after an intimate private journey of a few hundred pages.

But do you then put the book down? Not so fast. There may be just one more thing, if you don’t mind. It’s time to read the acknowledgements.

The acknowledgements have grown from the obligatory mention of copyright holders, to heartfelt thanks to everyone who has worked on the book, to an ever-extending list of friends and family ‘without whom…’ etc.

Some senior editors can legitimately take credit for cajoling and improving a writer’s efforts, and some inspiring agents may even too; with barely any hesitation, then, why not thank the copyeditor, who may have saved you from ‘egregious’ errors; and that kind librarian who went ‘above and beyond the call of duty’ to dig out all those books that you can’t claim to have actually read, but did manage to list in the bibliography; and it’s probably a good idea to thank the rather nice publicist too, who’ll be with you for some time out there on the road as you promote the thing; oh, go on then, bung in the publisher, the sales and marketing team, and all the ‘guys handling the socials’…

When as a junior editor I received a manuscript, flicking through the pages to see everything was there, I couldn’t help but run my eye down the acknowledgements. ‘And finally,’ went the last line, ‘I’d like to thank my hard-working and long-suffering editor X, who has saved me from many embarrassing slips – any remaining mistakes are, of course, my own.’

That ‘hard-working and long-suffering editor X’ was, I realised, me. ‘I know,’ she said breezily, ‘we hadn’t met when I wrote it, but you can fill that bit in.’

There may be touching acknowledgements to parents ‘who never lived to see this book see the light of day’; or toe-curling ones to friends, colleagues and children deprived of precious attention; or slobbering public displays of affection to your life partner, lover or (perhaps worst of all) dog.

When we consider a piece of music, a poem, a short story or a novel, the work is the thing. Title credits belong in the cinema, with a soundtrack (that’s a whole other story). But acknowledgements – if you really care about your reader’s feelings – have no right to force themselves upon our attention, even if (or especially if) you are looking for your own name: beware, it might not be there.

So, inevitably, finally, I’d like to thank you, without whom none of this would have been possible. Our conversations brought this blog to life. You mean the world to me. I love you.