Introductions assume the veil of ignorance. When, at a party, I bring an old friend over to you so that I can introduce you, it's because I think you haven't met before and would like you to. If, in a bookstore, I leaf through an introduction to Catholicism (or dressage, or lichens), it's typically because I don't know much about these things, and would like to. Introductions give you something or someone new to think about, talk about, and spend time with. When they work well, they're also a vade mecum, a guide you can keep with you to consult as needed, and so deepen and strengthen your new acquaintance.
Usually introductions vouch for what they introduce. The one who makes the introduction ordinarily loves, or at least likes, what she's introducing: she's taken the trouble to get to know it, and she'd like you to do the same. Perhaps she thinks that what she's introducing is good for you to know: it seems to her that it's medicine everyone needs, and so she's an evangelist for it. But sometimes the one who makes an introduction does not like what she's introducing. Ordinary cocktail-party courtesy might require me to introduce my enemy to you, even if I think he might be bad for you to know. Perhaps I've spent my life studying something I dislike (totalitarianism, violence, chicory), and I write an introduction to it. Such an introduction may be a warning as well as an offer: here's what you need to know about this so that you can avoid being damaged by it.
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