The legend tells that when the land was still wild and peoples were just learning to call each other by name, a winged shadow began to soar through the skies, drawing a disturbing trajectory. No one knew where it came from. Only that, when night fell, the air thickened with a smell of sulfur and a suffocating heat that crept along the paths like an omen.

The Guild of Booksellers of Catalonia confirmed this Wednesday, two weeks after Sant Jordi, the record figures that were advanced at the end of the celebration: 26.7 million euros were invoiced, a figure that represents a slight increase compared to the 26.1 million in 2025. For the celebration, 2 million copies were sold, corresponding to 71,000 different titles.

Celebrating Sant Jordi a week later is surely one of the strangest things that happens to Catalans in Madrid. April 23rd is the Book Day –which is by no means the same thing– and normally a few days later the delegation of the Generalitat government in the Spanish capital organizes its own festival. It doesn't quite catch on either: books and roses are celebrated, but everyone is already speaking in the past tense. This year has been no different, the delegation led by Núria Marín chose theResidencia de Estudiantes in the El Viso neighborhood, in Chamartín, to celebrate the Sant Jordi festival in Madrid. The festival and what it represents have been championed, but a good part of the attendees seemed to have their heads elsewhere: probably in Congress, where the Spanish government was losing the voteto extend the rent freeze and the consortium between the PSOE and Esquerra due to Junts' 'no' vote.

Sant Jordi has ended and we save for next year the phrases we always repeat to ourselves: that it's the most beautiful day of the year, that it should be a holiday, that if some country had this festival we would envy them, what luck to enjoy a day that is about reading and loving. Exactly, a festival where we put books at the center and where we make the best-selling rankings, which doesn't mean the most read. I wonder how many of the books bought for Sant Jordi are left on nightstands, waiting for their moment. When it's summer, when the children go to camps, when this project is over, when I'm less tired. With reading, we do a bit like with life, we keep waiting for the optimal moment without realizing that it is now and today that we should read more, go out more, or rest more. And I tell this to those of you who now have young children and are more in the pit: they will not be small again, but you will not be the age and energy you have now either.

After a long time pursuing it, I managed a couple of weeks ago to get the original 19th-century edition of Las Papillotos, by Jasmin, in four very well-edited volumes published in 1842, 1843, 1853, and 1863. They arrived on Sant Jordi's Day, and at the end of the article I will explain why it seems like a not very good premonition to me – rather, a bad omen. Jacques – or Jacme – Boé, known literarily as Jasmin or Jansemin (Agen, 1798-1864), was a Gascon barber-poet who turned the old popular speech of Agen, a dialect of Occitan, into a literary instrument of unusual strength in the 19th century. Son of a humble family, self-taught, a great orator, he worked his whole life as a hairdresser while writing and reciting poetry in a dialectal variety that is now dying. His fame as a poet arose mainly from the recitals that took him to many theaters and salons in France. His musical diction and the vivid use of the langue d'oc captivated an audience that was discovering – and here one must choose words carefully to avoid creating illusions or anachronisms – a striking but politically harmless cultural anecdote.He published several volumes under the general title of Las Papillotos, which brought together long verse narratives combining white humor, pathos, and a gentle portrayal of popular life. Sentimental and vehement, Jasmin dignifies humble characters and turns everyday life into poetic material. In the mid-19th century, he was celebrated by Parisian critics and writers, and some consider him a precursor to the Occitan literary renaissance. The passage of time, however, worked against him: the Occitan dialect he wrote in ceased to be transmitted. This linguistic disappearance has led Jasmin to be read both as a creator and as a mere witness to a lost and irrecoverable world. He died in Agen, respected and popular, with a striking bronze statue and all, leaving behind a work that today is perhaps more archaeological than literary. He turned Las Papillotos into one of the most unique literary monuments of the Occitan language with narrative poems such as L’Abuglo de Castel-Cuillé, Françouneto, Maltro l’innoucento, Lous dus frays Bessous, etc. They are extensive tales, full of dramatic and truculent twists, good-naturedness and tenderness, which portray the lives of ordinary people with an emotional intensity that the urban public of 19th-century Paris found, ambiguously, exotic and familiar at the same time. Jasmin's strength lies in an uninhibited, elastic, sentimental language, closely linked to the spirit of Romanticism and, above all, to rural France. His characters are sensible peasants, virtuous maids, artisans, abandoned children. He treats them with dignity, often eliciting a tear from the respectable public. Although it may seem strange, the reception of this work was extraordinary: in the mid-19th century, Jasmin was an editorial phenomenon, as well as a celebrated rhapsode. The 20th century, however, relegated him to oblivion, a victim both of institutional contempt for the "patois" – as some called and still call Occitan – and of discomfort with a popular romanticism that no longer fit modern canons. This weekend, I happened to read a dozen of these poems. It's like hearing a voice that still sparks, but that comes from a landscape that has faded, ghostly and a little depressing.

Happy coincidence: the two books most sold by Sant Jordi share the fact of being written with a lot of humor. The fiction of Crispetes de matinada is a wisely managed festival of hilarious situations, conversations, and thoughts, and the non-fiction of Manual de defensa del català (yes, unfortunately, it is non-fiction) presents itself to readers with humor that acts like the mustard and ketchup that make a shoe-sole type burger digestible.

Eight months ago, all this was unthinkable: publishing a novel, that it would have readers, that it would have so many readers that it has been on the bestseller list in the State for 34 weeks, discovering Sant Jordi and doing so as a writer who signs. Two months ago, Lucía Solla Sobral (Marín, Pontevedra, 1989) took a leave of absence from her job at a technology start-up because the unexpected success of Comerás flores (Libros del Asteroide) has meant she can only sleep at home two or three days a week. Working between shifts in hotels was already unsustainable. The day after Sant Jordi, she took a flight back to Oviedo, where she lives, and this Saturday, to Argentina.

Allow me, to begin, to express the pride and satisfaction, as someone would say, that a day as well celebrated as yesterday's Sant Jordi provokes. We can congratulate ourselves. We can congratulate ourselves.We know Regina well, at ARA, especially the newspaper's audiovisual team, of which she was a part. Regina, more than connecting with readers' tastes, has connected with readers' hearts, and such a phenomenon is unbeatable. Regina conveys truth. Added to this is the mastery of fresh and fun narrative technique, the result is yesterday's: number 1. This morning I spoke with her and she told me she was happy, for among other reasons, because it was also the triumph of humor in Catalan. has connected with readers' hearts, and such a phenomenon is unbeatable. Regina conveys truth. Added to this is the mastery of fresh and fun narrative technique, the result is yesterday's: number 1. This morning I spoke with her and she told me she was happy, for among other reasons, because it was also the triumph of humor in Catalan.

Sant Jordi has once again overflowed Catalonia with the magic formula that never fails: books for all tastes —from the exquisite Nobel laureate Han Kang to young authors in love with success, such as Gil Pratsobrerroca, David Uclés and Inma Rubiales—, roses at prices ranging from 4 to 25 euros, and the contagious enthusiasm of millions of citizens who have taken to the streets ready to have a good time.

Indeed, Saint George is like capitalism, which integrates everything. On Rambla de Catalunya, between stands of roses, NGOs, and political parties, I stumble upon one from the National Police, just below Mallorca street. I feel a chill and instinctively move away. I'd say there are no Mossos: for now, they've been given the mission of entering secondary schools undercover. On a day like today, Catalan police might have to recite poems that don't incite violence, without dragons or Saint Georges, much to Mendoza's delight. Meanwhile, the police of old are handing out leaflets to children on Rambla de Catalunya. Barcelona, indeed, continues to be a city of wonders.

The Cambra del Llibre released this Thursday a provisional but quite accurate list of the best-selling books for Sant Jordi. In Catalan, the top positions are held by Regina Rodríguez Sirvent (fiction), Òscar Andreu (non-fiction), and Míriam Tirado (children and young adult). In Spanish, the best-sellers have been Eduardo Mendoza (fiction), Ana Garriga and Carmen Urbita (non-fiction), and Emma Gil (children and young adult). According to data from the Cambra del Llibre, total sales for Sant Jordi 2026 are close to 27 million euros, almost a million more than last year.

Something is moving in the fabric of Gràcia's bookstores. In recent months, two new establishments have opened: Nocturama, in Plaça Revolució, and Pàgina 128, at Carrer Torrent de l’Olla, 177. For both, this is their first Sant Jordi in the neighborhood: Pàgina 128, specializing in children's books, has a stall in Gran de Gràcia, but Nocturama has not prepared anything special. “Today is about meeting readers and readers meeting me,” says bookseller Marina Rodríguez, who opened the shop just two weeks ago. Furthermore, on May 15, a new bookstore, Finestres Palestina, will open on Carrer Verdi. They will therefore be three additions to Barcelona's most extensive and varied bookstore network. “We are the second neighborhood with the most bookstores in Europe, only surpassed by Charing Cross in London –boasts Jordi Duarte, owner of Taifa Llibres, on Carrer Verdi–. The number fluctuates each year, but in the entire district there are usually between 36 and 38 bookstores. Each has a different model, and a network has been created where if you don't find a book in one, you'll find it in another.”

Absolute success for the comedian and communicator Òscar Andreu this Sant Jordi with Manual de defensa del català (Univers): he started signing at the Plataforma per la Llengua stand and a queue of about a hundred people formed. The book was released on April 7th with an edition of 16,500 copies. At Plataforma per la Llengua, it has sold out. While a reader told him family stories related to learning Catalan, Andreu didn't look up from the book and continued signing non-stop. Impossible to talk to him. “I like his humor, and everything related to language interests me,” says a reader, Carles Vila. “Long live Catalan and long live Catalonia!” exclaim a couple, Miquel and Emma, while Òscar Andreu signs their copy.

Throughout Sant Jordi's day, between book signings, canapés, and plane tree pollen, I watch the news and listen to the radio. In the afternoon, once the fish is sold, they provide economic data for the day. The sales figures for flowers and books give me goosebumps. No one will take away our merit for this day. To talk about it, the reporters deployed in the capitals share anecdotes, tender moments, and try to talk about the flood. They all talk about the territory. "Throughout the territory" or "we are now going to another part of the territory" or "and if the number of roses sold has been high throughout the territory, the sale of books has also been high"...

Mishima completed their first Olympic cycle of La Nit de les Roses this Wednesday. It has been four years since they were the first band to perform at the historic La Paloma venue in the heart of Barcelona's Raval after its renovation, and they did so by proposing a pre-Sant Jordi party that fuses words and music, as befits the most literary band on the contemporary Catalan scene. As Manuel de Pedrolo said, if they are roses, they will bloom. And these have burst forth proudly: if seeing them chanting Mishima's songs and the applause for the writers who acted as openers are the barometer, this is a tradition that has come to stay. 

The Mishimas completed their first Olympic cycle of La Nit de les Roses this Wednesday. They have already In times of fear for the future of Catalan, David Carabén sent an optimistic message: “Our language is in good enough shape that we had to go over it a few times these days to select authors”. The lineup was certainly a luxury. Opening the proceedings was the latest recipient of the Premi d'Honor de les Lletres Catalanes, the poet Biel Mesquida, who torrentially recited the last three pieces from his latest book, Trast

Sant Jordi, the great civic and cultural festival of Catalonia, endures everything. Literary sugar excesses and critical or humorous boutades. However cutesy we make it, however much of a profile some people adopt, we all end up celebrating the diada. It's unbeatable. Who gives up choosing a book? Who doesn't want to receive or give a rose? It's so hard to stay on the sidelines... It's a marvel that somehow works on its own, by the force of popular adherence that overcomes all mental and ideological borders, that is part of what we call shared identity. Because the magic formula doesn't fail: book and rose. So simple and so brilliant. As they say now in gastronomy, they pair well: reading and love-nature.

Look how big the Sant Jordi festival is, that every year it completely bypasses all the country's news agendas and reduces the day's events to the category of “the rest of the day's news”.

For Ali Smith, reading is so important and has shaped her in such a decisive way that this Wednesday afternoon she stated, in a packed Saló de Cent of Barcelona City Hall: "Books and libraries have a relationship and significance similar to what we humans have with water. I know that three-quarters of my body is water. I suspect that three-quarters of my body is also made of books".

After the crusade to change the name of Saint George's Day, I hope the thick heads are creating a manifesto to change the name of Saint Patrick's Day (intolerable that it is called that) to "beer day", damn it. Now then. Saint George's Day is such a radiant, radical and joyful day, so unique, so sensible and wild, that wanting to change its name or intention, wanting to change a thread of its dress, is wanting to crash against the fence. The tradition of making the 'tió' poop, which we love, you can explain with a gesture of sufficient irony in your mouth – "they hit a log so that it poops gifts, hehe" –. But with Saint George's Day, irony and sufficiency would not be understood, they have no place. Saint George's Day is the tangible and angel-touched proof of that "los catalanes hacen cosas" from the missed M. Rajoy. You take the most civilized and cultured being in the world to see how we queue under the sun to get them to sign... a book, and he rubs his eyes and asks for medication.