Every debut novelist is expected to have a voice. They're also expected to have a technique, a style, a skill, or the ability to create memorable characters, but what will make them stand out from the crowd is whether they've managed to offer a different, original introduction. If we were right now inside Etna Miró's novel (Barcelona, ​​2001), "different" and "original" would be in italics to emphasize irony and detachment, two of the mechanisms the author uses most effectively to describe a group of Barcelona residents—those she has had the brilliant idea of ​​creating—who are students of philology, literature, or political science. Like a swarm buzzing with great social intelligence around the hive formed by the islands of Ildefons Cerdà, they come and go, chatting about everything except money, as if they were always in front of an audience. What isn't foreseen is that they will have "spiritual crises," and that's what happens to the novel's protagonist, Amelia de las Camelias, a charmingly ornate, old-fashioned name, an obvious literary reference. The one who has pushed her into it is Amelia herself, who has put on a beautiful shell, but doesn't realize it's empty: she's an Emma Bovary who, no matter how much she reads, doesn't grasp a single one of life's ironies.

"Writing a chronicle should be an act of freedom," Empar Moliner said towards the end of the presentation of his new novel, Instructions for living without her (Column, 2026), to the readers who listened to her with devotion this Monday evening at the Finestres bookstore. Among the audience were a man who bore a striking resemblance to Michel Houellebecq—one of Moliner's favorite authors—a former director of TV3, a handful of journalism students, and someone who exuded an intense stench of tobacco, camouflaged by the perhaps even more pervasive fragrance of chewing gum.

"Literary genres don't exist. For me, either there is literature or there isn't. We know what painting, architecture, sculpture, and music are—things change after John Cage—but it's not the same with literature. What is literature, and where do we find it? I can recognize it immediately: literature. I find it very evocative: literature. It excites me." Antoni Marí I used these words in 2012 to introduce Book of Absences (Tusquets), a magnificent example of the cultivated, demanding, and dazzling literary endeavor of the author born in Ibiza in 1944, who died in Barcelona at the age of 81. Shortly afterward, he added: "Literature is about fixing and dispelling the darkness."

This is the story of a sleepy girl and a bouncy fish. Many years ago, in a place called Catalonia, some grumpy gentlemen with mustaches and beards the color of shoe polish, or nuclear detergent, believed that Catalan wasn't dead but rather a Sleeping Beauty. They set up franchised stores throughout the country and christened them "La Renaixença" (The Catalan Renaissance). What did they want to sell? Salt spray! No, just kidding. They believed that Catalan would awaken after its narcolepsy of 1714, possessing a literary language, a language of culture. And how would they achieve this? With sex.

Roger Bastida, with that nineteenth-century mustache he sports He himself has an air of another era, with the novel Passeig de Gràcia (Comanegra and Àfora Focus), winner of the 2026 Santa Eulàlia Prize, transports us to the most brilliant and turbulent period of contemporary Catalonia, the turn of the 20th century. While the book begins much earlier and ends with the mediocrity of the Franco regime, its depth and focus lie in the splendor of Modernism during the Noucentisme period, with the upper bourgeoisie, enriched in the Americas—yes, through slavery—as the protagonists of the industrial leap. The explosion of workers' demands and the rise of Catalan nationalism serve as a backdrop. The dominant perspective is that of those in power, and those who served them.

Fish, the fifth novel that Eva Baltasar (Barcelona, ​​1978), published by Club Editor, tells the passionate yet destructive love story of two women. The first is a writer who narrates her journey of fascination, anguish, fear, and escape from her lover. The second, named Victoria, sells paper cones of fish at street markets and lives in a house reminiscent of those Gothic mansions where anything is possible. Translated into some twenty languages ​​and a Booker Prize finalist with BoulderBaltasar is one of the most internationally renowned authors of Catalan literature. Fish It confirms, once again, the singularity, power, and lyricism of his proposal.

If one day, by chance, I happen to be on the subway with Màrius Serra (Barcelona, ​​1963), it's very likely that he has a notebook open in his hands and is writing frenetically. Don't even think about interrupting his creative flow: you could break the torrent of words that has ended up shaping a monumental novel like The misunderstanding (Proa, 2026). "A half-hour subway ride can be very productive," he says. "On a commuter train, the result can be spectacular. I like to practice writing on the move mainly for two reasons: first, because I'm away from my usual workplace; second, because I'm writing by hand, and I'm aware that what I'm doing is a first draft, something that gives me..."

Albert Sánchez Piñol (Barcelona, ​​1965) is a novelist who possesses the virtues of audacity and a keen sense of timing. This, I believe, is undeniable, regardless of whether you like his novels or not. When I say he has the virtue of audacity, I mean that he conceives narrative projects that are grand in both ambition and capacity to surprise, and that he dares to attempt to execute them without resorting to specious precautions or reining in his imagination. And when I say he has the virtue of a keen sense of timing, I mean that he knows how to read the signs and interests of each historical moment and, with a threefold literary, political, and anthropological perspective, knows how to incorporate them into his novels. He demonstrated this with Victus and the commemoration of the tercentenary of the fall of Barcelona against the Bourbon troops in the War of the Spanish Succession. He demonstrated this with The monster of Saint Helena and the desire to reinterpret reality through the lens of feminist justice that sparked the Me Too movementAnd he proves it again now with After the shipwreck and the vengeful resentment and the miasma of disappointment and shame that the failure of the independence process has instilled in Catalan society.

Five years after his last published diary, I don't know what dies (Affairs, 2021), Ramon Ramon (Catarroja, 1970) once again makes public pages from his private notebook. He is a writer of the null days without linewhich is the only valid program, but it spaces out the moments for editing its pages. It debuted in 2014 with Within the grass field (diary 2009-2012). At that moment I already noted his polished and supple prose. An example: "Coming along the highway, the copper light of the valleys and mountains of Maestrat has enveloped us like sunflowers. Even a very nearsighted person like me could make out the leafy details of vineyards and olive groves. The most poetic green, in these lands, is the one painted by the plow (…).

The Valencian Regional Government's Ministry of Education, headed by Minister Carmen Ortí, has confirmed a new attack on the teaching of Catalan language and literature in Valencian public schools. This is yet another secessionist assault: a measure that, under the guise of "prioritizing Valencian authors" in academic content, marginalizes and excludes writers born in Catalonia and the Balearic Islands from the Valencian language curriculum. Because they are not "Valencian" and do not write "in Valencian." Minister Ortí and her team overlook, or perhaps ignore, the fact that the first author to write in Valencian was a Mallorcan, Ramon Llull (with all due respect to the troubadours). This was possible because Llull was the first European writer to address theological and philosophical themes not in Latin, which was the language of culture in the 13th century, but in Catalan. In other words, Llull was a Mallorcan who wrote in Valencian because he wrote in Catalan. This, interchangeably, can be said of all Catalan writers throughout history. Of Valencian writers, too, and first and foremost: a very significant part of the best Catalan literature has been written by Valencians. Furthermore, from Ausiàs March and Joanot Martorell to Josep Piera, Enric Soria, Maria Josep Escrivà, Àngels Gregori, and Joan Deusa, including giants like Estellés and Fuster, it can be stated unequivocally that Catalan literature would not exist (it wouldn't exist as we know it: it would be much smaller). And we can put it another way: all Catalan, Mallorcan, Menorcan, and Ibizan authors write in Valencian. Doesn't Councilor Ortí know this either? If she doesn't know something as basic as this, she's obviously not fit to be a regional minister, much less the Minister of Education.

"Sometimes people tell me I write books like they used to, and I think they're just like they always were," he said this afternoon. Albert Sánchez Piñol (Barcelona, ​​1965) at the Museu Marítim, the chosen venue to present After the shipwreckThis is the first novel he has published with Univers – an imprint of Abacus Futur – after 25 years with La Campana. Despite changing literary trends and generational shifts, Sánchez Piñol remains faithful to the adventure novels that shaped him as a child and allowed him, thanks to Cold skin (La Campana, 2002), achieved unprecedented success in Catalan literature. If that novel, set on a remote island, had echoes of Robert Louis Stevenson, in Pandora in the Congo (The Bell, 2005) resonated within it Joseph Conrad, which has appeared in other books by the author. In After the shipwreckThe tribute is another great classic of the 19th century, Herman Melville

"Perhaps we write to remember, but above all we remember to write," we read in Acció de gràcies for a house, the new and highly recommended book by Stefanie KremserPublished by Edicions de 1984, this is the first book written in Catalan by the author, born in Düsseldorf, raised in São Paulo, and a resident of Barcelona for over two decades. Kremser draws on the recent and traumatic memory of having to leave the apartment on Princesa Street where she lived with her husband, the writer Jordi Puntí, to reflect on the importance of having a place to live and taking care of it, whether modest or luxurious, and how a city like the Catalan capital makes it increasingly difficult for its inhabitants to do so.

The history of Catalan literature is full of novels featuring Passeig de Gràcia, from Private life, by José María de Sagarra, until Broken mirror, of Mercedes Rodoreda, and The manufacturerby Dolors Monserdà. Until now, however, no fiction had taken place almost exclusively in one location. Roger Bastida (Hospitalet de Llobregat, 1990) has set himself the challenge in Passeig de Gràcia. Story of a familyFocusing on the destinies of three Catalan families—one noble, one bourgeois, and one working-class—over the last two centuries, the jury of the Santa Eulàlia Novel Prize has decided to award it. Organized by Comanegra and Àfora Focus Edicions for the past four years and endowed with 25,000 euros, the Santa Eulàlia Prize recognizes the best novel about Barcelona. In this case, the award will help to discover the young voice of Roger Bastida, who has already published three historical novels. The lizard's gaze (2017), The long festival (2020) and Under the shadow of the Washingtonia (2023), all three published by Columna. A graduate in art history, Bastida lives in Madrid, where he works as a historical consultant on series such as Temperance, Jan, Queen Victoria Eugenie and Sira He is also a professor of the history of clothing applied to costume design for film and television at ECAM (Madrid Film and Audiovisual School). "Even though he's such a young author, good literature is ageless," says Alba Cayón of Comanegra.

I read about a commotion Don't bother answering me (Empúries, 2026), the book that collects the letters that were sent Salvador Espriu and Joan VinyoliThey are not particularly poetic, political, or socially contextual letters. They are personal lettersThe messages exchanged between two friends to celebrate life's triumphs and lament its sorrows and disappointments. In total, they contain forty letters from Espriu to Vinyoli, eight from Espriu to Teresa Sastre (Vinyoli's wife), and only seven from Vinyoli to Espriu.

Rosa Font Massot He hasn't been far off the mark, and has set out to write about desire. About sexual desire, urgent and vital, but also about the spiritual desire for creation, the desire to sing. And, furthermore, about the desire to forget our dying condition, to change our perspective, to contemplate ourselves from the outside, or from very high above, as suggested by the verses of Iorgos Seferis that head the last canto of this poem: "Under the sky, we are the fish and the trees." About the desire to understand life from its origin, without the mediation—and the extreme, intimate complication—of consciousness. It is, for all these reasons, an ambitious book: "The Poem of Desire "It aims to be the construction of a literary space where amorous desire is a fusion with the world and with all that we perceive and are."

In literature, there is often a disdain for genres considered commercial or popular that has never existed in film, not even among pedantic snobs and sophisticated specialists. There are quite a few critics, academics, and journalists who specialize in literature, however, who adopt a somewhat condescending attitude whenever they read a detective novel, an adventure novel, a horror novel, or one with supernatural or thriller elements. As if Dumas and Stevenson weren't creators of incredible characters and worlds, as if Raymond Chandler's prose weren't among the best in 20th-century English, as if the terrifying Shirley Jackson and the visionary Stanislaw Lem weren't first-rate writers—in style and ideas. I mention these names, and I could mention so many others. These condescending readers are unaware that writing a genre novel is incredibly difficult.

When Francesc Torralba (Barcelona, ​​1967) began teaching philosophy at the university, only five years older than his students. "Now I'm almost forty years older than them," he explains. "One of the changes between then and now is that I currently observe very high levels of disenchantment among students, both in the classroom and in tutorials." Torralba's new essay, Anatomy of Hope —which won the 2026 Josep Pla Prize—, stems from the unease he has observed in society in recent years, particularly affecting young people. "They are constantly bombarded with negative messages," the author continues. "They are told they will have precarious contracts, that they will never be able to buy a 60-square-meter apartment."² in Barcelona, ​​and that they will experience relationships marked by volatility." Adding to the negativity about the future is the media's portrayal of the present. "The news and newspapers tell us that both the local and global worlds are falling apart," he adds. "He has attempted suicide twice, what do I tell him?" he asks.

"I know better what it costs to get on a tractor than to go up or down the subway stairs," he admits. Antoni PladevallBorn in Taradell in 1961, the author has continually explored "the psychology of characters who live surrounded by land, trees and irrigation ditches" in novels such as Rental properties (Column, 2006) and The black butterfly (Column, 2009). "From a young age, I was aware that I was just another figure in the landscape, and that the landscape, besides looking at me, was also looking at me," he recalls. A Doctor of Classical Philology, Pladevall was a high school teacher until four years ago. "I started in Berga, then moved to Torelló and Sabadell, and ended up in Vic," he says. "At one point, I could have taught in Taradell, but I resisted because I didn't want to run into a student's mother while I was queuing to buy bread, reproaching me for having failed her daughter."

There are two types of writers: those with imagination and those without, though this doesn't determine their literary worth. Those who have imagination are capable of expanding reality and creating worlds governed by their own rules. Mar Bosch Oliveras (Girona, 1981) was an imaginative author and we already knew from her novels that she had what is called "her own world" You will come with me after the flood (Comanegra, 2018) or The effervescent woman (Univers, 2020), and the stories collected in Lessons from the abyss They confirm it.

In the scholarly introduction he has written for this reissue of The life and death of Jordi Fraginals, the professor Josep Murgades It makes a kind of genealogy or inventory of many of the descriptions, interpretations and analyses that, more or less insightful, more or less reductionist, have been made over the decades of the very studious novel by Josep Pous i Pagès (Figueres, 1873–Barcelona, ​​1952): ruralist, history of a self-made-man, "the last modernist novel", a concretization of that precept of Albert Camus according to which the novel is a "universe where action finds its form"... Murgades' introduction, instructive in its nature as a hermeneutic sampler, is pertinent as a presentation of a classic of the Catalan novel of the 20th century because, written up to now, our duty as readers is to try to read the book from what we are today and here, without anachronisms or a priori assumptions.