Let's start by talking about cinema and then we'll get to books. The year 1948 was a busy one in Hollywood: it was the year of the Paramount Decree, which regulated the production-distribution-exhibition chain for decades and dismantled the studio system in the film industry. The studio system was the business model developed by the major studios, known as majors –that is, Warner, Paramount, Universal, etc.–. The fact is that in 1948 this decree arrived as a result of a case against Paramount that was settled in the Supreme Court of the United States. The decree established, among other things, that producers of a film could also distribute it themselves, but they could not own the theaters where it would be shown. We could say that it decreed a kind of separation of powers in the field of cinema. Why? Because what they were doing –vertical integration– was a monopolistic practice that limited and stifled independent cinema. What happened when the antitrust ban came into effect? The number of theaters showing independent films grew, and independent production companies that worked without interference from major studios proliferated (other things too: the relaxation of the Hays self-censorship code, for example). In short, the decree was the beginning of the end of the studio system, the end of the system that put control and power in the hands of the strong, in short, lifelong bully politics. The decree was in effect until 2020 (!), although Disney had already disregarded it before: with streaming platforms, everything has become a bit complicated (Netflix is not a movie theater, but it is a distribution channel, etc.). Once repealed, studios can not only buy movie theaters but it is also legal again what is known as block booking, which is: if you want to have the good movie, you also have to take a couple of duds, which, at least when I studied audiovisual, was the norm in television channels when buying movies "in packages". The result of this practice is evident: the quality of the content is lowered; well, we already know that quality is not usually the objective of big cultural businesses.The dangers of excessive concentration

But this is Llegim and we have to talk about books, right? Well, the fact is that the other day I went into an Abacus store and I was a little horrified. The special display areas (that is, those that are most visible and, therefore, most coveted: the ends of tables, wall displays, etc.) were mostly books from the Abacus Futur group. This, which perhaps should make me happy because I have published a micro-essay with them, made me rather sad, and the Paramount Decree immediately came to mind. Abacus has 44 stores (according to AI: I couldn't find it on their website), and yes, I know, Planeta also has its network of bookstores (La Casa del Llibre, with 75 bookstores) and Anagrama (La Central, only 5). Besides, Planeta and Penguin Random House (PRH) have their own distributor. Planeta's case goes a step further in vertical integration, as it also owns several media outlets. But it seems that in this country nobody really cares about excessive concentration as long as the money flows. The fact is that if you alone produce and distribute and sell and advertise books, perhaps you create unfavorable conditions for independent production. Let's return to the United States for a moment. Five years ago there was an uproar because Penguin Random House threatened to buy Simon & Schuster, one of its great rivals, and the U.S. Department of Justice filed a lawsuit: they feared that the PRH conglomerate, if it went ahead with the acquisition, would have undue influence on the books published in the U.S. and on writers' compensation. Even Stephen King went to testify, and said: “I’m here because I think concentration is bad for competition.” The acquisition was prohibited because the judge considered that the sale would substantially harm competition. Where does free trade end? Where do monopolistic practices begin? All in all, it also makes me think of the associations of writers and translators that for years have been refraining from publishing recommended fees for fear of getting into trouble (after a notorious case with the association of tourist guides). Does what competition laws establish end up constraining (harming?) more the individuals who work alone and have no bargaining power against large groups than the business monsters that monopolize the market?

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With an already immense and Basque weariness towards the subject, I read that these days Mr. Juanma Bajo Ulloa –a film director who, some time ago, mesmerized me (at fourteen years old I went to the Fantasio cinema three times to see Butterfly wings) but which I later abandoned completely – goes around the world whining and saying that if you're not a woman or don't follow certain rules woke You're in a very difficult position in the film industry. I haven't seen the interview, nor will I: I'm speaking from hearsay. Some have come forward to refute Ulloa's claims with data, especially Javier Zurro: in short, we could say that, in terms of subsidies, there are a few extra points (very few) if some of the main positions are held by a woman. This is a measure that exists to correct the historical and ominous bias that films made by women have suffered. However, Zurro tells us that, despite the very small amount of support women receive, in 2023 only 36.5% of the projects that received funding had exclusively female directors, and in 2022, 37.8%; the same is true for the films in which RTVE invests: between 2020 and 2023, 63.7% had male directors. In other words, we continually hear the annoying refrain about poor men being left out, while the data confirms that men are still the majority in the industry.

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The other day I went to a high school where the second-year students had read Biography of FireThis book is certainly not the most suitable for high school students, because some of the stories deal with themes that may be too distant for them, and, in general, it has a level of complexity that, given the current state of reading comprehension, suggests it might not be easy for them. However, these talks in secondary schools are always interesting, especially because you realize they're surprised that writers are normal people. And part of the job is this: to get teenagers to stop seeing us as a kind of repressed, old-fashioned bookworm who doesn't write about life but about empty intellectual abstractions. This talk was also interesting, especially when the topic of sex came up.

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Every day I get more and more annoyed by the clichés and conventions that infest all kinds of fiction, whether written or audiovisual: that car that won't start in a moment of panic (but will start at the last second); that conversation between two people that's already finished, but which is reignited the moment one of them leaves and grabs the door handle: the other calls them by name and then says something profound; pregnancies, whose first sign is too often vomiting, while in real life vomiting only occurs in 50% or 60% of cases, but, of course, making a woman vomit is visually more interesting than dialogue; similarly, fictional births are the great deception: water breaking is cinematically more suggestive, even though in real life only one in ten women's water breaks at the moment labor begins; not to mention what comes after: these are the kinds of births that very few midwives have ever witnessed. The characters are also stereotypical, that is, clichéd: the other day I saw Goodbye JuneTo my great disappointment, the roles of the three daughters were repetitions, rehashes: the daughter obsessed with meditation and herbal spiritual nonsense, the capitalist daughter, and prick who never stops working, the devoted and somewhat disorganized mother. I understand, of course, that sometimes, for the sake of narrative economy, a certain simplification is necessary when telling a story, and tropes, conventions, and stereotypes are just that: simplifications that make it easier and shorten the process, but I get the impression that we're going too far. This excessive simplification brings with it a significant leap: fictions cease to represent reality and now only represent themselves. With the advent of AI, all this only gets worse.

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Sometimes you walk into a bookstore with no specific idea in mind, but with the desire to be seduced by an unknown author. Three elements play a significant role in this seduction, which some call marketing: the cover image, the paratexts (bands and back cover), and the title. Perhaps we'll discuss cover images another day, because there's a huge variety—we have everything from Gallimard's minimalism to the garish colors of the British—and perhaps some publishers deserve jail for their bad taste (the jail thing is just a figure of speech, but since I see some readers have a lot of nerve, I'm clarifying to avoid incredibly tiresome comments like: "You're trivializing prison," "You're the one who should be imprisoned for writing articles like these," etc.; basically, things like that, but with thirty spelling mistakes). I've already spoken about the texts on the bands before.And I'd be in favor of burning all the back cover blurbs. Today, then, we'll talk about the titles, because there are also authors who deserve severe sanctions from those who choose them. I'll talk about texts that are close to my heart so as not to offend anyone.

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This week we have been shaken by the changes in the Saint Lucy's NightThe event, which will become the Night of Catalan Letters (NLC), will be held in March and will include more awards. I, frankly, have mixed feelings about the news.

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Since some booksellers have been saying all sorts of things to me for the past couple of weeks, I'll take advantage of the privilege of having that platform to tell my story. This could be a declaration of love.

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There are days when you come back from vacation and enter a huge bookstore in your city, where, as soon as you walk through the door, the first thing you find is a selection of books under a sign that says Booktokers, a selection of books with flashy covers and unknown names, all of them thicker than they really are, the paper size, multiplying the words and paragraphs to feed a gregarious and hungry crowd), and then there is another wall lock with the bestsellers, the new releases (including news that have been on the street for a year) and the recommended books, some of which are incredible to recommend, although it shouldn't surprise you because you already know that in this bookstore recommended It's synonymous not with the bookseller's enthusiastic reading but with the payment the publisher has made to have their book in a prominent place, so you pass through the entrance and reach the half-hidden corner at the very end, behind a column, where Catalan writers have been punished, and there you find a book with a cover that not only tastes like churros (which are no longer sold) but also like iPhones, and that will be read for this reason alone: to be the imitation of a cover, to be a repetition. And on days like these you think: "Fuck books."

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Maybe I'm naive, but I'm not too worried about the emergence of artificial intelligence in the literary world. In an article two years ago I argued that perhaps AI will free literature from certain servility.Things have happened since then. For example, I recently read that traces of the prompts intended for AI. In case anyone doesn't know yet, one prompt or, in Catalan, request, is the text that the user enters into an AI system to give it a command. Thus, for example, in the book Darkhollow Academy, Year 2 —what an unpromising title— by Lena McDonald, it read: "I've rewritten the excerpt to be more in the J. Bree style of writing, which is characterized by more tension, gritty touches, and a strong emotional subtext beneath the supernatural elements." Another title by KC Crowne said: "Absolutely! Here's an improved version of the excerpt." Crowne's case is revealing: she has 173 titles available on Amazon, which makes one suspect (or downright certain) that this person doesn't write the books she self-publishes. The covers featuring muscled hunks sporting abs and stubble are so hideous and conventional that they seem like a parody.

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The other day, at a book launch, I attended a conversation between three independent publishers who discussed with concern and helplessness the changes the Catalan publishing market has been undergoing recently. And perhaps global sales figures have indeed grown., but for whom have they grown? One of the editors explained that, in her case, for example, the supposedly glorious day of Sant Jordi sold half as many as last year. Not ten or twenty percent less, no: fifty percent. Another commented that the average sales figures for each title were around 400 copies. A third told me on the phone that their sales this year as a whole are thirty-five percent down. So when we say that Sant Jordi went very well, we should specify who it went well for.

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The other day, a friend told me she'd attended the presentation of an essay on new masculinities, and that, despite the fact that what was said was interesting and well-spoken, despite the fact that the book seemed like a good one, despite the fact that everything was entertaining, despite the author's obvious intelligence, at a certain point she had a sudden and irrepressible reaction. Why? Because she realized that, as always, the vast majority of those present were women, which is sad and ridiculous; after all, the topic of new masculinities affects women indirectly (although, I won't deny it, it affects us a lot, or even too much), but it affects men the most. Shouldn't they be the ones interested? Why are we, once again, putting up with their nonsense?

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As I write this, I'm awaiting my mother's imminent death, and I've just returned from a funeral. I wanted to write about another topic, but the truth is, right now I don't feel up to it. And since nothing stops in the face of death, since I'll still have to pay for groceries, rent, extracurricular activities, and the regularization of Social Security contributions in 2023, it's also necessary for me to continue producing, collecting, and invoicing. And writing articles.

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When I was nine, I studied the list of irregular German verbs during recess. When I was twelve, I spent a good part of my weekdays on a magazine to learn English. A few months ago, I took up Japanese again after more than ten years and I can once again confirm that learning a language brings me genuine and somewhat absurd happiness (it is obvious that Japanese will be of no use to me) and at the same time an indescribable frustration (I know that I will never be able to fully master it). People often ask me how many languages I speak and I say that I speak one and barely: Catalan. It is not false modesty, it is just that passive language is one thing – the one we understand by reading or squeezing it out – and active language is quite another – the one we can produce by speaking or writing – and therefore there are languages that I can read without difficulty but that I do not speak fluently. This is also frustrating and makes me feel like an impostor. I know that I am not the only translator who trembles at the prospect of translating a living author and having the publisher decide to take him to Catalonia and propose a joint presentation.

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