Every April 23rd, the same thing happens to me: I feel a mix of vertigo and excitement. After thirty-five years in the industry, twenty-five of them running my own company —which celebrates its anniversary this June— and working as a literary agent, Sant Jordi is still an exceptional day for me.
From the outside, this day is a luminous celebration: crowded streets, roses passing from hand to hand, carefully wrapped books, hurried yet heartfelt dedications. From the inside, for those of us who work in the sector, it is the culmination of a long, often silent process that begins many months earlier.
Every book that is offered to readers today has gone through countless conversations, doubts, revisions, commitments and sacrifices; through a long chain of people who have contributed their part and their professionalism to turn a text into a book. Sant Jordi is not just a celebration: it is also a result.
As an agent, I experience this day with a double perspective. On the one hand, there is the intimate satisfaction of seeing the authors I represent meet their readers face to face. No algorithm can match that moment when someone approaches a table, flips through a book, and decides to take it home.
The emotion most authors feel that day is difficult to put into words, as is my own: an emotion made of excitement and pride for having helped make that dream come true. But on the other hand, there is the responsibility of knowing that for many authors —and for publishers as well— Sant Jordi can define the year: it confirms careers, opens opportunities, or sometimes exposes vulnerabilities. And that is simply the reality.
I have seen this day change over time. The industry has evolved: new formats have emerged, new ways of recommending books, new economic pressures, and even the city has redistributed the bookstalls differently each year. And yet, Sant Jordi endures. It remains a space where books take center stage in public life, where culture becomes a shared act rather than a solitary consumption. And for those of us who have spent decades defending the value of literature, there is something deeply moving about that.
It is also a day of contrasts. The euphoria of sales coexists with the structural precarity of the sector; the media spotlight with the invisible work of editors, translators, proofreaders, and agents. Perhaps that is why I experience it with a measured, conscious and grateful joy, but never with naivety.
After thirty-five years, I still believe in the profession. I still believe in books that build thought, emotion, and memory. And every Sant Jordi, I renew that conviction when I see that, at least for one day, an entire city chooses to celebrate words.
I wish you all a happy Sant Jordi, and I hope you give roses and books to all your loved ones. Because it is not only a beautiful tradition, but also a way of reminding our society not to lose the value of thinking of others, even if just for a day—by giving a flower, one of the most beautiful things in nature, and offering something as valuable as a book, which will surely bring something meaningful to whoever receives it.
