Not every day do you have the luck to read a newly published book and have the certainty that you have a classic in your hands. This is what happened to me when I read Encara hi sou tots, by Liadan Ní Chuinn, published by La Segona Perifèria and translated into Catalan by Ariadna Pous. They are six extraordinary stories that explore the British colonial legacy in Northern Ireland. Both Irish and English critics already consider her one of the best voices of the generation after the Good Friday Peace Accords. From the person behind the pseudonym, Liadan Ní Chuinn, we only know that she was born in Northern Ireland in 1998, the year these agreements were signed. The name, however, is a declaration of intent: Liadan comes from the ancient Gaelic liath ("grey") and dan ("poet"), and it is the name of a 7th-century Irish poetess who fell in love with the poet Cuirithir, but who chose her vocation and her work and became a nun. NíChuinn is the feminine form of "daughter of Conn", high king of Ireland and legendary ancestor of the Gaelic dynasties. All in all, it would mean ancient poetess, daughter of Ireland. Ancient poetess, daughter of Ireland. Ní Chuinn, with the connivance of her publisher, has made no public appearances, the interviews she has given are written and no portrait of her circulates anywhere. The only contemporary precedent so deliberate was that of Elena Ferrante (until a more than bored journalist unmasked her).In Catalonia we have had milder versions of this same choice. Of Marta Rojals we know her real name and that she is an architect born in 1975 in La Palma d'Ebre, but she has always maintained a clear position: no photographs, no public appearances. Ada Klein writes under a pseudonym and in her debut we only knew she was a doctor, but she did not allow herself to be photographed or make public appearances so as not to mix profession and the literary world. With her second book she has relaxed this stance. Another different example would be that of Irene Solà, whose real face and name we do know, but who actively avoids media exposure, despite her success. These are three ways of trying to preserve something important from the noise.In an era of compulsive overexposure on social media, choosing absolute silence, as Ní Chuinn has done, is an act of freedom and self-esteem that I find admirable. It is only the work that speaks, and it does not need to exhibit the body or instagram one's own biography to achieve the easy dopamine of likes or external admiration and validation. It is surely a necessary gesture if one wants to write freely and truthfully because, let's be honest, addressing a national conflict in a colonizing state is not free anywhere. We know this well in Catalonia, where we have had politicians in prison and in exile. Read from here, then, Ní Chuinn's gesture reminds us that the freedom to write is never a guaranteed right, but a conquest for which each author must continue to fight, in their own way, every day.

"If you'll take one piece of advice, don't miss this book," he assured a few days ago Keret appears punctually on his computer screen in Tel Aviv, the city where he grew up and where he still lives and teaches creative writing. It's eleven in the morning, but he's been up for hours: he has a habit of going out at a quarter past seven to take a walk on the beach, which is ten minutes from his home. "I'm sorry I haven't been to Barcelona in so long. Maybe with the next book they'll invite me," he admits, before offering a small sample of his irony. "For now, with things the way they are in my country, it's normal for you to be afraid of someone like me coming."

That a novel of the importance ofBelovedThe fact that it was never translated into Catalan is one of those things that infuriates. How many future writers could have seen themselves reflected in them if the publishing system had done its job more than thirty years ago? And, much more importantly, how many readers would have raised the bar of their reading comprehension and wouldn't be seduced by any bound nonsense lining the new releases shelves? Reading books of the quality and complexity ofBelovedIt acts as an antidote to banal and commonplace literature. Reading it in Esther Tallada's magnificent translation is, moreover, a luxury.

The novels of a man whose convictions have wavered are often better than those of a man with dogmatically unwavering convictions. In dissent, in divided passion, in ambivalent or bifurcated commitments, literature grows more powerful and lucid than in absolute certainty and militancy.

Albert Pijuan She has turned 40 in top creative form: she has won the Crexells Prize with her latest novel, The Great Replacement (Ángulo, 2024); has co-written, with Victoria Szpunberg, one of the theatrical sensations of the season, The third escape, which premiered at the TNC, and is currently working on two other stage productions, the adaptation of Permagel, ofEva Baltasarand a story set in a restaurant. This fall, she also just presented In the middle lane (The Second Periphery, 2025), a "unique, foundational, and radical piece of political-road essay," as can be read on the back cover of the volume, or also a funny and extreme textual proposal narrated by Felip Roda, a village eccentric who aspires to get Catalan drivers to reduce their speed for martyrological purposes.

Here is a heroic novel. Because it is bold and electrifying, and because it elevates these poor girls to the status of heroines, who, in the hands of any other writer, would be little more than supporting characters. What another writer would have resolved with a sordid, dirty, and dark portrait of unfortunate women who have found a way out in boxing, a young debutante named Rita Bullwinkel (California, 1988) has decided to narrate as an epic legend, a mythical tale with female protagonists fighting for a place where they can exist. Enough with pantheons of male athletes with perfect bodies: make room for the muscular curves of the female boxers of Reno, Nevada.

When it comes to talking about Mexican Railways, the editor of La Segunda Periferia, Miquel Adam, says that this novel by Piedmontese Gian Marco Griffi (Montemagno, 1976) is "a miracle." The truth is that the book was bound to go unnoticed and, most likely, would never have ended up in his hands if it weren't for the enthusiasm of Italian readers. Translated into Catalan by Pau Vidal, Mexican Railways is a nearly 700-page novel starring Cesco Magetti, a soldier in the Fascist Italian Republic who receives the bizarre assignment of mapping Mexico's railways for his superiors. From there, Magetti embarks on an adventure filled with eccentric characters and bizarre stories, on a fascinating journey that is, at the same time, a tribute to great names in literature such as Juan Rulfo and Roberto Bolaño.

Emmanuel Bove (1894-1945) was originally named Emmanuel Bobovnikoff and was the son of a Russian-Jewish father and a Luxembourgish maid. He lived a hectic life, between cheap boarding houses and shabby hotels, lung disease, and financial hardship. In 1924, the writer Colette published his first book, which is now available in Catalan thanks to a brilliant translation by Josep Alemany. My friends It is a perfect example of Bove's talent, a "secret" writer, highly recommended among writers, who has not made much fortune below the Pyrenees. Patrick Modiano, although Bove lacks the fog that surrounds the French Nobel Prize winner's characters, but rather the melancholy and sadness in the background. Everything is cleaner and clearer, rawer and more concise: "Before each customer there was a bottle and a glass. Music could have been made with a knife."

The volume includes three short novels: The ancient mortal condition, The midday wine and Pale horse, pale rider, which gives the collection its title. All were written in the late 1930s, when Katherine Anne Porter (1890–1980), the author, was an emancipated and adventurous woman who traveled extensively, worked both as a film extra and as a university professor, was divorced four times, and cultivated storytelling; the fullness of her literary talents.

A few days ago, a younger friend asked in a chat room why we like Quimi Portet so much. Some of the responses were: "For his lyrics," "He has a cool, naughty side," "He's aged really well," and "He already had great songs with El Último de la Fila." I added that she understands Catalonia very well. "Very well argued, I'll listen to it," she concluded.

The readers he had Anna K. By 2006, she was remembered as a meteorite, a rare elderly which everyone received with an euphoric: "It's about time, something different!" In 2025, the year in which the publishing house La Segunda Periferia has decided to bring it back, the panorama of publications in Catalan is more varied and rich, the world has turned upside down and the perception, by force, must change. The edition has a couple of epilogues that contextualize both the author and the work: Tina Valles accurately recounts the Premiano de Mar by Martí Rosselló (1953-2010), which is also his own, and Borja Bagunyà He sees in the work traces of a tradition of the grotesque that seeks to expose the principles that sustain reality. The novel receives all kinds of praise. Everything seems to be in its place, then.