Fitzcarraldo Editions, an independent publisher based in London, has quickly and quietly established itself as one of the UK’s most successful and prominent independent publishers. With four Nobel Prize in Literature winners under its belt, it has rapidly established itself as a prestigious and innovative publishing house.
Instantly recognisable by its distinctive all-blue covers (or white if it’s a non-fiction title, or white with a blue border for poetry), they are not only a mainstay of prestige literary circles, but an increasing one on our shelves and homes. I’ve taken an interest in their publications for a while, and am yet to dislike any of them, counting a fair few among some of my favourites of all time.
Their slate this Spring has been no exception, and I have managed to read two of the new titles. I’m often quite bad at keeping up with new book releases (mainly because, well, who has the money for that?), but my well-timed Spring birthday, as well as the Easter holidays, have given me a good chance to catch up.
Polly Barton, ‘What Am I, A Deer?’
Firstly, I read Polly Barton’s debut novel What Am I, A Deer? and attended her talk at Blackwell’s this week. Barton is so far best known for her translation work, in particular the work of Asako Yuzuki, author of Butter (2017, Waterstones Book of the Year 2024) and Hooked (2026). She has also written non-fiction for Fitzcarraldo before, in particular Porn: An Oral History from 2023. What Am I, A Deer? proves that her fiction skills are just as impressive as her translation and non-fiction.
It follows an unnamed narrator who has upended her life to begin again in Frankfurt, working in a games company, doing translation and localisation. Upon being asked to sum up the novel Barton says it’s about four things – obsession, gaming, translation and most importantly, karaoke. The latter features very heavily throughout the novel, both as a point of connection between her and her new colleagues, and as a solo activity as a means of finding her way back to herself.
Barton eschews traditional narratives in favour of a lilting, relaxed style, broken up not by chapters but by song lyrics, set out in all-caps as a way to pause and interrupt the narrative. The song choices are great and varied, everything from The Cure, to Leonard Cohen, to Carly Rae Jepsen.
I asked her about the songs at the end of the event, wondering what went into her decision to choose specific songs. She said that some were more random and intuitive, whereas some were chosen as markers of a thematic transition. My favourite is towards the end, when she finally talks to the Umbrella Man, who has been a source of obsession for her over the course of the whole book. Barton chooses lyrics from Fiona Apple’s “I Want You to Love Me” here, and it could not be more perfectly chosen.
The book, originally titled ‘The Year of the Crush’, is dynamic, fluid and often poignant in how it depicts loneliness, obsession and the desire to see yourself in someone else. Its stream of consciousness style reflects this, drawing thin lines between the voices that come from within us, and those that come externally. “I am a very porous person,” Barton says, speaking to the way she takes influence from those she translates. “In a way, translation itself is a form of unrequited love.” It’s this delicious dilemma that generates the heart of a shining debut novel.
Dorothy Tse, ‘City Like Water’
Dorothy Tse’s City Like Water is not dissimilar in its use of free-flowing narrative and unnamed protagonists. Translated from the Chinese by Natasha Bruce, City Like Water is a brief eighty-eight-page read depicting a changing, shape-shifting Hong Kong filled with unreal characters and surreal events.
The protagonist’s mother joins a protest against fake lotus roots and is turned into a statue by the police. Her sister flew away long ago. Her father sinks into the TV he has on twenty-four hours a day. State repression creeps closer and closer every day, into a Hong Kong populated by ghostly figures and echoing silences.
I can’t get this book out of my head. Although I only read it a couple of days ago (in one sitting), I already feel itchy to reread it. There are a lot of ghostly little moments I want to come back to, and a strange, almost oceanic environment I want to go back and sit in. This book has to be read to be believed.
It’s a haunting narrative in which reality falls away layer by layer, revealing the hard, repressive state regime at its core. Meals become haunted, loved ones fly away or become ghost-like. The city is eating itself alive. I’ve honestly never read a book that comes even close to being like this, and I don’t know if I ever will.
Fitzcarraldo’s spring releases this year have been delightful so far, every bit as fresh and innovative as their previous works. There are plenty of others that I might still try and get around to, like Giada Scodellaro’s Ruins, Child. Fitzcarraldo may look intimidatingly pretentious from the outside, but inside, they are fast becoming one of the most reliable and consistent publishers in the UK.
