The author Edgar Feerman inhabits two worlds at once: one interior, populated by words that sound good, extraordinary landscapes, mythological monsters, and peculiar situations; and one exterior, which needs no description, since every living being knows it all too well.
These two worlds collide endlessly, and from those collisions are born the stories, the poems, the short pieces he tends to write and publish in his books, driven by a motive similar to that of a castaway on a desert island: casting bottles into the sea in the hope that someone, somewhere, will find one bottle and read what's written inside.
Edgar Feerman is a fantasist by birth—a breed of human rarely understood by ordinary, everyday beings, though often understood by other fantasists, themselves in search of strange treasures that mutate just as they do.