I have had a strange experience these days, and the perplexity still lingers. I know that many people —perhaps some of you reading me now— have lived it and, like me, have accepted it with a resignation that leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

Sometimes a writer is immersed in a novel, has planned its structure, has worked on the characters, and perhaps has written pages and pages of it. But at a certain moment –it could happen any day, even on one of those days when you feel least inspired–, they write a sentence and immediately realize that in that sentence “there is the novel”. It is a truly glorious moment that the author will most likely celebrate with a shout, or by abandoning writing and going for a walk, or going out onto the balcony to light a cigarette, as the case may be.

Imogen Pollock wrote a biography of her mother many years ago in which she described her as an irritable, cruel, and narcissistic woman. Her mother was Enid Blyton, the author of a prolific body of children's literature that, like millions of children around the world, turned me into a voracious reader.

Looking back can and should be beautiful. This is one of the phrases that will serve as a basis for me, this Sant Jordi, to dedicate the book We Were So Young, where I describe in words some photographs from my family albums. My intention in writing it is to invite readers to review their own albums and to let themselves be carried away by this kind of nostalgia that does not cause suffering.

This Tuesday, the book War Diary of a 'Baby' by the Badalona poet Josep Gual, who died in 2005, will be presented at the Museu de Badalona. Another Badalona poet, the philologist Valentí Soler, has taken care of the transcription of the manuscript of the notebook that Gual wrote from April 28, 1938, when he joined the conscription called up at the athletics tracks in Carrer Iris, until he was sentenced to forced labor in September of the same year. The book has been published by Edicions del Pont del Petroli, which already has several poetry collections by Josep Gual in its catalog.

In this Sunday's newspaper, Àlex Gutiérrez interviewed the comedian Maria Rovira, known as Oye Sherman, with whom I had the good fortune to meet doing radio a few years ago. I remember how impressed I was that such a young girl showed such great interest in language and culture, and sparked a quick and funny mind without any desire to grab the spotlight.

To see and walk on the snow-covered Mount Etna is a privileged experience. I lived it last week as a brilliant start to a stay in Sicily accompanying a group of ARA subscribers. We toured the island following the trail ofIl Gattopardo and its author, Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa, and we were sated with beauty and art, all still dazzled by the impact of the snow-white snow dotted with black-as-coal volcanic bombs.

Now that Sant Jordi is approaching and booksellers, readers, writers, publishers, and cultural journalists are throwing themselves into it with energy and a touch of anxiety, I would like to share, from this corner, some reflections on the act of writing that May Sarton left us in her Diary of a Solitude(Amsterdam Llibres, translated by Núria Parés).

I've been able to see and hear, on social media, the speech given by TV3 sports journalist Xavier Bonastre to say goodbye to his colleagues on the day he retired (for months now I've only been seeing people from my own circle). fifth (who are retiring, and it's a somewhat unsettling reminder). From here, I congratulate Xavier Bonastre on his retirement and for so many years of good work, and, especially, I congratulate him on the words he spoke at his moving farewell.

When you've read an author with admiration, you end up loving them, and that's why for many readers of Julian Barnes it will be difficult to start reading Farewells (Editorial Angle) without feeling a pang in my heart. Before even starting it, we already know that this is the last book we will read by the author. He has made this explicit, both in the title and in the interviews he has given. Barnes is eighty years old, ill, and doesn't want to leave a book unfinished, so, with a serenity not without irony, he decided that this was the end of his literary career.

Ramon Madaula says that being a father is like playing seven and a half: you either go over or you go short. He most likely says this after many lost games (and just as many won), and that's why he wrote the play Loop, which is currently being performed at Espai Texas in Barcelona.

More and more publishers, thankfully, are not limiting themselves to publishing a literary work, but are also offering us, within the same volume, a gift in the form of a prologue, epilogue, or translator's or editor's note. These extra texts help us get to know the author, provide context, or elaborate on a specific aspect of the edition or translation, making it even more interesting. It's a bonus, a detail for readers, that is greatly appreciated.

We should find a word to define the feelings that wash over us when a project we've been involved in for a long time comes to an end. I'd say it's somewhere between emptiness, longing, and regret, with a touch of mourning and a sense of loss.

We've all been there: a loved one tells us they're going through a difficult time, and we feel compelled to react. Let's take a sadly common example: a friend tells us that they or a family member is seriously ill. Many, many of us, despite being genuinely affected by the news, simply write a WhatsAppHowever often we hear the phrase, once it's written down, it becomes a cliché: "I'm so sorry," "Cheer up!", "If you need anything, you know where to find me," "Everything will be alright."

Lately, and perhaps it's just a coincidence, I've heard, seen, or read several cases of people who have reconnected with part of their biological family as adults. They are very different stories, but they all share a common thread: the interest and curiosity that everyone feels to know where they come from, even if their life has seemingly been without any hardship until the moment of this discovery.

Seeing the images of the damage the recent storm caused to the Badalona seafront, a friend wrote to me: "Sílvia, where will you walk now?" I replied that I was very upset because, indeed, the section that had become completely impassable was the one a friend and I usually walk along every morning, between Badalona and Montgat. However, as I told my friend, we hadn't done it for days because during the Christmas holidays I sprained my ankle, and it's still bothering me. I took the opportunity to tell him how I did it, because I knew he'd like to hear about it.

The Catalan publishing world is celebrating. A small but essential imprint has been born: Eppur Llibres, founded by scientists Sergi Pérez and Jordi Barenys. This new publisher has a clear and noble objective: to offer some of the most important scientific texts in history in Catalan.

One of the most pleasant surprises you can have as you get older is that life still grants you the ability to make new friends. Friendships born in middle age are—I would say—less tender, less sentimental, more serenely chosen, and perhaps for that reason, freer.

A week ago, as 2025 drew to a close, I spoke about endings, which often leave a bitter taste. To compensate readers, today, at the very start of 2026, I'll revisit the joy that beginnings usually bring us. Even if the President of the United States wants to spoil the start of this year for us.

New Year's Eve, although I've always enjoyed it in good company, always fills me with a certain unease. Since we've been celebrating at home for decades, I can't attribute this unease to what happens outside—this absurd and tacky mix of sequined dresses bought at Temu, excessive alcohol, ghostly figures, exorbitantly priced menus, and TV programs you don't know which one to watch.