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We live in a familiar moment, one where the First Amendment is under siege yet again. Where government threatens to withhold funding from universities that fail to conform to ideological mandates, where entire institutions, like the National Endowment for the Arts, are being dismantled in favor of propaganda and control.1 This is not a drill nor a flight of dystopian literary fantasy, but the beginning of a cultural purge masquerading as policy.

When those in power seek to snuff out dissent, publishing becomes an act of defiance. When the state demands conformity, the book becomes a site of liberation.

The Trump administration’s campaign to gut educational infrastructure, impose ideological tests on admissions,2 suppress diversity initiatives, promote the wholesale banning of books,3 and erase global perspectives is nothing less than an attack on the intellectual fabric of this country. It is a vision of America with fewer books, fewer languages, fewer questions. It’s a vision that aims to lower literacy.

To publish now (more than ever) with intention, with ethics, with fire is to reclaim the public sphere. It is to light a match in the darkness. In the absence of a functioning civil consensus, we the people of publishing must fulfill our oldest role: as purveyors of narrative and stewards of collective memory and imagination. If the halls of higher education are being turned into surveillance states, we will become the libraries of resistance. If artists are told their work must serve the nation, we will remind them: their nation is humanity.

Publishing is protest. Publishing is communion. Publishing is resistance to algorithmic flattening, to the corporate erasure of literature, to the idea that only certain stories deemed safe, sanitized, and profitable deserve to be told. Books are living things; they are catalogs of humanity that carry even the quietest voices across time and space.

Let us utilize genre, the form of manifesto, to serve as a compass once again. Let it point us toward a future where no one is silenced for their truth, where minority is not edited out, where queer lives are not footnoted, where students are not policed for the act of curiosity. We believe in books as homes for dissent, as shelters for the soul, and as maps made clear in the haze of authoritarian fog.

1. WE ASSERT THAT PUBLISHING CHANGES PERCEPTION. We believe in books as constellations—each title a point of light, a link in the luminous chain of a publisher’s identity. Like our venerable Italian forefather, Roberto Calasso,4 we see publishing as art, as philosophy, as spirit of mind, body, and soul. Like Dudley Randall5 we champion black voices and the formidable power of resistance when it seems like all is lost. Like Lawrence Ferlinghetti6 and Barney Rosset7 we lay down words in defense of our inalienable freedom to speak. And like Florence Howe8 we take up the charge in support of education and unrelenting belief in the equality of the sexes. Nothing is arbitrary. From the margins to the cover, every detail matters.

2. WE WORK TO QUELL FASCISM. We believe fiercely in the First Amendment and the rights of all people to speak. And while others push agendas of fear, we will push acceptance, peace, possibility, and cooperation. Ours is a revolution of emotionality, empathy, and ethics.

3. WE ARGUE THERE IS NO CAPITAL–T TRUTH. We believe truth is slippery, rhetorical, subjective. It lives in the eye of the reader and the voice of the storyteller. We elevate lived experience from the worker in Uganda to the California surfer. From whispered memory to shouted manifesto. We publish them all.

4. WE CHAMPION LITERACY AND EDUCATION. We believe that knowledge is the foundation of empowerment. That it opens doors to possibility, transforming lives, and giving voice to the voiceless. Like the first stroke of ink on a blank page, education is the beginning of all journeys. Literacy is the bridge that connects minds to worlds unseen, a spark that ignites the power of thought. We see books as more than just pages. They are vehicles for discovery, for growth, for connection. We support classrooms that foster curiosity, libraries that invite exploration, and minds that dare to question.

5. WE ADVOCATE FOR COMMUNITY SERVICE. We believe that giving is the thread that binds us. Service within publishing is not simply an act of charity; it is a mutual exchange of knowledge and creativity. We stand with those who use their platforms to uplift voices, who weave narratives that matter, and who create opportunities for diverse perspectives to flourish. Through mentorship and advocacy for marginalized authors, we know that community service sows a world where empathy blooms and action follows. The future of publishing is shaped by those who serve to nurture legacies of inclusivity, storytelling, and growth.

6. WE PUBLISH TO EXPAND CONSCIOUSNESS. We believe in stretching minds to make space for souls unlike our own. In a world that flattens complexity, we demand nuance. Reading is a radical act of expression, of empathy, of imagination, of resistance.

We are not gatekeepers.

We are door-openers.

We are not trend-chasers.

We are nonconformists.

We are not censors.

We are publishers.

WE FIGHT AGAINST corporate homogenization and literary silos.
WE FIGHT FOR marginalized and underserved communities.
WE FIGHT AGAINST prejudice, bigotry, racism, and xenophobia.
WE FIGHT FOR diversity, not just of face, but of thought.
WE FIGHT AGAINST the suppression of ideas.
WE FIGHT FOR stories that belong to everyone.

We will promote platforms for radical publishing across multiple mediums: print, digital, and audio.

We support accessible books.
We support economical books.
We support imaginative books.
We support writers and artists creating without compromise.
We support readers connecting without limitation.
We support stories that shape a more open, vibrant world.

We must strive to go deeper, write braver, challenge the narrative, rewrite the rules, share new perspectives, and see beyond the page.

For publishing can protect democracy. It can arm the heart. It can make the invisible visible. It can do what politics alone cannot: it can dream.

SO LET’S PUBLISH WITH PURPOSE

UNTIL WE CAN PUBLISH NO MORE.

Notes

I fervently agreed, and it didn’t take much to convince our friends either. Mamma Mia, Greek tragedies, and blue water for days—not to mention the food and the timeless mystique of the islands. Until our trip in 2023, I had never been out of the country. I’d dreamed for years of traveling abroad. I deeply desired to experience the wealth of riches I imagined lay waiting in foreign cultures. I longed for historical immersion. I romanticized travel. A line from a song by Minus the Bear, “Absinthe Party at the Fly Honey Warehouse,” had stuck like tar to trousers in my mind. It was simple, but profound:

Sitting on a park bench

That's older than my country

I longed to experience this feeling—to bodily and materially acknowledge the remarkable expanse of time, the vast stretch of human history. The United States, in comparison, is young, but somehow ravaged more than war-torn Europe or the lands spoiled by Genghis Khan. Buildings torn down before ever being built, a forgotten erasure of history in favor of growth and capitalism. I desperately yearned to feel the weight of time, and what better place to find it than the cradle of Western civilization? Greece—birthplace of democracy, philosophy, literature, science, mathematics, art, and architecture. The Acropolis. The Temple of Apollo. The oldest olive tree still standing. Structures from the 4th and 5th centuries B.C.

Plus, I craved Mediterranean cuisine, and the Odyssean Sea was calling to me.

***

As we boarded the feeder flight from Istanbul, I tried to temper my expectations. A STEP notification warned of a ferry strike. We were likely to lose a day on Sifnos. I scrambled to book an extra night at our apartment in Kallithea. The receptionist was kind and reassured me, “It's not a problem. You can stay another night, same price. The ports will open again tomorrow.”

We accepted the loss of a day on the island, and wandered through Athens, the girls slipping in and out of boutique shops that lined the cobblestone streets. I savored a scoop of gelato. There was a noticeable Italian influence here, a remnant of the Venetian Republic. I had the best focaccia I’d ever tasted on a street corner in Athens. I struck up a conversation with a young Greek man running a jewelry shop. He asked where we were going. “To the islands,” I told him. I asked if he’d been to many of them. He shook his head. “No,” he said, his English broken but clear. “They are... how do you say? Expensive.” I asked him about the ferry strikes. “Oh, they happen all the time.” He shrugged. “It’s normal.”

As I turned over his words, I started to understand something deeper: my movement was privileged. The ability to hop from one island to the next, to roam at will, spoke to a kind of freedom that the local Greeks simply didn’t share. And as I ambled through the ancient streets of Athens, I became increasingly aware that the very history I came to experience was being commodified, sanitized for consumption, and overshadowed by an industry bent on serving tourists.

***

The receptionist arranged a driver to take us to the Port of Piraeus. It was early—before dawn—and I was exhausted from jet lag, but I was dying to see the ocean. We boarded the Dionysios Solomos and headed across the Mediterranean. I was on the deck for most of the trip, eyes glued to the horizon. A group of students burst into song, performing the Kalamatianos1 (or sirtos) a dance of Peloponnesian origin. Folks stood to join them in a circle. Joy filled the air, and the scene warmed me, as I couldn’t recall a time back home when I’d seen people spontaneously join hands to sing together. I sipped black coffee and rubbed Virginia’s back while she subdued a bout of seasickness. When we finally glimpsed the rocky outline of Sifnos, I knew it was everything I’d hoped for. After disembarking, we settled at our hotel and walked the cliffside path down to eat lunch on the beach. I stepped onto dark, variously shaded, smooth rocks, feeling the icy, crystal-clear water sting my feet. We screamed as we waded in, but I froze when Alyssa pointed out that a bee had landed on me. It clung to my hair for what felt like an eternity.

***

The ferry to Naxos was a vastly different experience. We were assigned seats and packed tightly like sardines into an enclosed vessel that whipped between islands at high speed. While the open ferry had nearly doubled our travel time, the slow chug across the Mediterranean had felt far more charming.

On our first afternoon in Naxos, we roamed the narrow streets toward the beach. For lunch, we had ouzo and gyros, and despite my distaste for licorice, I savored the cool liquor on my tongue. Ouzo was just one of many aperitifs I came to love in Greece. I quickly developed a taste for masticha, raki, and tsipouro. At our hotel in Athens, I was introduced to Amaro Montenegro—a drink I’ve since made many times at home, often mixed with tonic and topped with a slice of orange.

The highlight, however, was the people we met. On our second day, we went on a boat trip with Actionseaze Sailing, spending the day aboard a 52-foot Jeanneau with an eclectic group of around twenty people from all over the world. We met a man and woman in their late sixties who had moved from Oregon to New Zealand over a decade ago. Now, they traveled the world scuba diving. There was a lesbian couple from the UK, both working in journalism and human rights activism; a family from Germany; two friends from Beijing; and several others from Europe and Asia, not to mention our Greek hosts. As we shared stories over meals, swam in open water, and laughed together, it felt as if our differences had dissolved, replaced by a quiet sense of unity. Here we were, bridging communication gaps and living in harmony aboard a boat in the Aegean, soaking up a fleeting moment of shared humanity amidst the endless blue.

***

Lawrence Durrell once described Greece as a disjunctive space, one that shattered the idealized representations of landscapes. “We travel really to try and get to grips with this mysterious quality of ‘Greekness,’” he wrote, “and it is extraordinary how unvaryingly it remains true to the recorded picture of it in the native literature: true to the point of platitude.” I bought a copy of The Greek Islands at Diadrassi, a small bookstore near the pier on Naxos. I thumbed through it on the beach at Agios Prokopios, feeling the weight of history beneath the Montecristo wedged between my fingers. I exhaled. The Mediterranean air blew beneath the umbrella and the pages fluttered in the soft breeze.

Later, I stood gazing at the Temple of Apollo, listening to an audio tour through my AirPods. I couldn't help but wonder about Lygdamis, who, in the 6th century BC, may have sold his soul to build it. Was he really devoted to Zeus, or was his pride and ambition driving him? Who’s to say. But today, only the Portara remains, and it’s nothing short of breathtaking. The stark white marble contrasts sharply with the deep blue of the Aegean Sea and sky. Perched on the islet of Palatia at the northern end of Naxos' harbor, the site is steeped in myth—believed to be the place where Theseus abandoned Ariadne, who was later abducted by Dionysus. Lygdamis’ was a tyrant and Theseus’ was impulsive and reckless, but here I am considering them 1,500 years later because the wind hasn’t quite erased their legacy.

***

My friend Jenny petted one of the many stray cats prowling the alleyways. “Be careful of the cats,” warned Tassos, our cab driver on Naxos. “Some are sick.” I stood along the northern shore, gazing out at the Aegean Sea as the Etesian winds2 whipped my hair in cycles around my face. The stray cats, at first glance, seemed like a quaint symbol of the island’s charm. But as they lingered in the alleyways—sleek and curious—I sensed they were no longer welcome. Their numbers had grown so large, out of proportion with the island’s resources, that they were surely straining the ecosystem. And if the cats were a nuisance, I could only imagine the local desire to curb tourism. I tried to shake the thought and licked my spoon, disappointed by my choice of cinnamon gelato. It wasn’t quite hitting like the scoop I'd had in Athens.

When we flew back to the mainland on a small prop plane, I thought of Durrell again:

One does not travel by plane.

One is merely sent, like a parcel.

I was certainly sent, by some force unknown, to this place in time, to this moment. But how does one explicate connection? How does one attempt to explain the rhythm of a land so ancient?

As we passed over more islands below, I watched the water’s white caps break like miniature waves in a Hokusai3 painting.

***

The Greek Islands, bathed in their timeless beauty, have a way of ensnaring the soul. I’m a tourist, I know, but I felt an undeniable pull. I get what Durrell meant when he claimed to be “electrified by Greek light, intoxicated by the white dancing incandescence of the sun on the seas with blue sky pouring onto it.” I had experienced the power of the islands, and I wanted to stay.

The air, the sea, the history—all wound up in a way that felt so deeply alive. It was easy to imagine never leaving, never returning to the hustle and chaos of the States. Even now I dream of returning, of the peace I felt there.

Notes