The answer requires some preface. In 2009, I had just finished writing my novel, The Last Prince of the Mexican Empire, which is based on a true story and extensive original research into mid-19th century Mexico, the time of the so-called "French Intervention." I relish doing research— I am really happy spending an afternoon delving into archives. As a long-time resident of Mexico, I also enjoy translating Mexican literature. I rarely take commissions; rather, I prefer translate what I please— usually contemporary poetry and literary short fiction. (You can read more about my work as a literary translator here.) At that time, my husband was serving as Mexico's Minister of Finance. One of the unusual things about Mexico's Ministry of Finance is that, apart from its obvious function of (alas) collecting taxes, by long-standing tradition, it oversees several museums, art collections, and archives. One those archives happens to be that of Mexico's President Francisco I. Madero, leader of the 1910 Revolution, who was assassinated in 1913. So, because we thought it would be interesting, one Saturday morning, my husband and I went into the National Palace to visit the Francisco I. Madero archive. And thus I had the immense priviledge of viewing it in private and with the archivist.

When we arrived, a selection of the most outstanding items had been arranged on a table that spanned nearly the width of the room: Madero's masonic regalia; photographs; some of the channeled writings. We went down the table, the archivist explaining the importance of each piece. The archive had been acquired from the family of Madero's private secretary, who had saved these things during the terrible time of the Revolution; when he had the chance, he brought them to Madero's widow, Sara Pérez de Madero. In gratitude and friendship, she told him to keep them. As the archivist explained, it was, of course, considered in the national interest that this collection remain in Mexico and not, as so many other invaluable Mexican archives have, end up in, say, the University of Texas's Nettie Benson Collection.

What I knew then about Madero— his origin in the north of Mexico, his revolutionary struggle to overthrow the Porfirian dictatorship, his election to the Presidency, the "Decena Trágica" or Ten Tragic Days in February 1913 of fighting in Mexico City, culmnating in his murder in the coup engineered by General Victoriano Huerta and Félix Díaz and supported by U.S. Ambassador Henry Lane Wilson—was a little more than a gloss over the basic story every Mexican schoolchild learns. I had been living in Mexico for many years, and here, Madero has a stature that could, fairly, be compared to Abraham Lincoln's. There was also a family connection: my husband's paternal uncle and godfather had been married to a great niece of Madero's. This same uncle, Enrique Carstens, is also godfather to Gustavo Madero, the conservative politician named after Francisco I. Madero's brother. In sum, I didn't know much more than a few generalizations about Francisco I. Madero, but certainly, I was vividly aware of his transcendent and deeply respected role in Mexico's unsteady, yet determined, progress towards democracy.

Not halfway through the archivist's presentation, my eyes fell on a little book, Manual Espírita by "Bhima."

"Who was Bhima?" I asked.

"Francisco Madero himself," she answered.

I had picked up the book and was already leafing through it... los invisibles, Chrishná, Mosés, la doctrina secreta... it seemed a farrago of the Bible, Blavatsky, and The Bhagavadgita. "Really? I said. "Bhima was Francisco Madero?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?" It just seemed too extraordinary.

"Yes."

I knew, instantly and absolutely, that I had to translate it. I asked the archivist, "Has it been translated?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. It has never been translated."

Within the week, she had sent me a xerox copy of this extraordinary little book, and I had begun this work.

Later, as I learned more about the Revolution, Madero, Spiritism, and the brutal murders of Madero, his Vice President Pino Suárez, and his brother Gustavo, I began to recognize the importance of the Manual Espírita for anyone who would attempt to fully understand not only Madero's motives and reasonings, but his enemies's, throughout the Revolution and his presidency.

Though the translation had its challenges, and oftentimes my work was interrupted by my other responsibilities, throughout the process, I felt very honored to have been given the opportunity to bring it into English.

I have dedicated this work to my husband, my Mexican friends, and anyone interested in Mexican history. It is my way of saying thank you to Mexico for all my many years here.