We say in Erdosain that a book is a speech printed on paper and contained between two covers. As if we looked at the magician's lucid poma, each book written in the world is itself the complete history of the world, regardless of whether the book is ignored for its poverty or lack of readers, or if it is praised by critics through the centuries, transcending time.
If in the distant future, a homo alienus visits a deserted planet Earth, extinct of inhabitants, in which, of all the creations of men, only a single book half buried in the dunes of oblivion will endure, this would be the only testimony of the disappeared humanity: a very small part that would tell the whole that we were once: small and enigmatic tower of Babel, where all the peoples and their languages ​​would once again be one. Such we think the responsibility - and fault - of the editor.
Each book can be a reflection of all the books in the world, the last and the first — the particle and the cosmos; the letter, the word, the language ...
Just as the watery polishing of a glass makes it possible to make the reflection of a mirror more accurate, how many images of the world can the make of a book contain?
Aware of all this, we also want, in search of that elusive reflection of the human, to take charge of the old contradiction between aesthetics and poetics; we want to be critics and artists; be art and part; correct the dichotomy, without dissolving it; it seems better to open it, to confuse it; Never catch carbuncle, let it shine before us in the night of time.
We do not want the parties to dissolve becoming a gestalt all or that the whole is fragmented into positivist parts. Do not! We prefer, before this happens, that everything be eroticized ... that everything be "covered as a child."
We seek, in a community work with our authors: writers and illustrators, that each of our books find its own euritmia; that from its singular objectivity can tell a story of the world that finds its readers.
We want our books to unbalance, at least in the heart and mind of the reader, the political-religious duality that governs our "occident" lives; that they accrue, as Kafka wrote in a letter, "the ax that breaks the sea of ​​ice within us"; we want them to reveal the imaginary borders to cross them with concrete feet; that they speak to us of the trap of truth to rethink it; that each one of them becomes visible gear of the hidden engine of the machine in which the man who knows himself is constantly articulated and disarticulated.