Overwinter Olivier Adam was the first book that we published a winter walk and Henry David Thoreau topped the first hundred. Now we walk and looking for the next hundred. But to reach this first stage of the walk, we were surprised the obvious resonance of both titles and played to think that by virtue of chance or fate (odds synonyms) our label could be marked by an uncertain sign lights. Something that would please us, because the winter, you know, one after the harvest, prepared canned and stored firewood, it is time for meditation and pleasures, to walk to the loss and read by the stove and resume old correspondences, loves and friendships. Time to be who we are and what we want to be. We like that time, that many considered unproductive, and yet none is as fertile, the only thing that makes us feel alive, feet really well in the white ground, and which at times work even closer otium that negotium. On the door of our office we like to write someday that verse of Virgil that still can be read on the threshold of some Italian Villa intended for retirement and books: deus nobis haec otia fecit, a god has given us this leisure . We would like, in fact, a perpetual snowy winter and inexcusably where finally confounded chores and pleasure, the need and desire. And maybe chasing the unattainable winter, always north of the future, we became editors.