Casa de las Américas Prize (Winner)Society of Authors Valle-Inclán Prize (Shortlist)"García Robayo’s prose bristles with restrained energy and a wry humour which captures the disaffection of her characters." —The Times Literary Supplement"A remarkable genre-bending effort." —The Guardian"[Fish Soup] is a gorgeous, blackly humorous look into the lives of Colombians struggling to find their place in society, both at home and abroad." —Publishers Weekly, starred review"An evocative collection that conveys the potency of desire in even the most ordinary lives." —Kirkus"The tackiness of the Caribbean coast and its discontents are marvellously rendered." —The Times Literary Supplement"If you’re a fan of Ottessa Moshfegh or Melissa Broder, then this is for you." —The Guardian"García Robayo is building one of the most solid and interesting oeuvres in Latin American literature."" —Juan Cárdenas , author of ORNAMENTAL"Her stories combine the atmosphere of Desperate Housewives, Hemingway’s iceberg theory and a memorable, bittersweet ending."" —Jorge Carrión , author of BOOKSHOPS"Margarita shows sharp insight into contemporary life. Her voice speaks with surreptitious irony and sophisticated psychological perception. She is the creator of an exceptional poetics of displacement."" —Juan Villoro , author of THE WITNESS"There are very few writers who can challenge expectations the way Margarita García Robayo does. Margarita is simply one of the best of the new generation that respects, yet no longer identifies with, the Latin American Boom."" —Mariana Enríquez , author of THINGS WE LOST IN THE FIRE"This is a text written from within the belly of the beast. (…) One of the most essential books of the year." —Asymptote"García Robayo’s prose is concise and startling, her voice versatile and capable of packing a serious punch." —LA Review of Books"Subversive, funny, and biting." —Electric Literature"Full of everyday details that reveal the most vulnerable aspects of feminine subjectivity." —La Nación"One of the most potent figures of contemporary Latin American literature." —ABC Cultural**********Praise for Margarita García RobayoBiblioteca de Narrativa Colombiana Prize (Finalist)"García Robayo writes with caustic insight, brittle humour and a fair whack of cynicism (...) Holiday Heart is brilliant." —The Guardian"Understated, lyrical, and delivers its insights by means of acute observation. (5 stars)" —The Arts Desk"Cunningly well achieved." —Irish Times"Holiday Heart is a poignant and searing story of love ending." —Gutter Magazine"Coombe’s translation brilliantly captures the bite in García Robayo’s humour." —iNews"One of Colombia’s greatest living writers." —The Monthly Booking"Brilliantly dramatises the disjunction between an idealized picture of life like sitting on a sunny beach and the reality of that life like getting sand caught in your teeth." —Lonesome ReaderBest Fiction Books of 2017 —New York Times (Español)"Darkly funny throughout, this examination of two lives will stay with you long after you read the final words and lay the book down." —Lunate"Every sentence in the book seems to be written with a scalpel infused with acid. " —Morning Star"Acute, provocative, concise and raw." —Translating Women"An incredibly insightful portrayal of a disintegrating marriage...provides a sharp-eyed view of estrangement and personal identity." —Book Riot"Frightening, alluring, and inescapable." —Books and Bao**********"This multi-centred novel contains everything: death, life and all the stuff in between." —The Guardian"A sharp and perceptive novel." —Irish Times"The microscopic precision with which García Robayo delves into the human soul is striking." —El País"An unsettling novel about uncertainty, memories and fears, solitude, family relationships and hopes for the future." —Diario Popular"Robayo masterfully constructs a story of family ghosts and memories that put into question what it means to leave behind a country, family and friends for a new place." —Morning Star"Once again, a Colombian literary star has blended absurdism, realism and great linguistic skill to create a novel that may be neatly packaged but proves to contain multitudes." —Lunate"Completely engrossing. García Robayo’s best yet. " —Sounds & Colours"Inside the music of Robayo’s prose, one encounters an argument about the vigor of personal history, its relentless capacity to emboss the present." —The Believer"By throwing her characters off their typical paths, García Robayo continues to show readers that she is one of the brightest voices in Latin American literature." —On the Seawall"The Delivery reveals the fissures, gaps, and spaces of incomprehension that can exist between speakers of the same language." —Full Stop"This chamber piece, which chronicles the narrator’s various procrastinations, succeeds thanks to its voice, its pacing, and its glaring omissions." —Necessary Fiction"Questions about motherhood, belonging, and exile hang over this quietly unsettling work." —Southwest Review"García Robayo has written a novel that, avoiding any complacency, situates us in the interstices of identity." —El Mundo"If for this narrator having a child is like ‘resisting extinction’ (…), novels like The Delivery fulfil a similar injunction to permanence: not to pass through the world without leaving anything behind." —El País"An intimate, mature work that confirms Margarita García Robayo as one of the most promising Latin American writers today." —La Razón"The Colombian writer makes the daily routine of her protagonist seem like a disturbing sequence of events." —Expansión"A brilliant and exhaustive relationship with language that draws on a search for origins." —El Tiempo"Thoughts that achieve a sparking lucidity that contrasts with the bewilderment experienced by the main character." —La Nación"You can’t put it down until you find out what happens at the end." —Pagina/12"The Delivery is one of those novels that mark a before and an after, just as happens to its main character when she manages to open the crate sent by her sister." —Pagina/12"A book of contained intensity, full of glimpses more than certainties, which confirms the author as one of the leading voices of Latin American fiction." —El Siglo de Torreón**********

Short stories winner of prestigious Casa de las Américas Prize. Applauded by LA Review of Books, Times Literary Supplement. Includes two novellas - one appearing here in English before Spanish.Marketing PlansSocial media campaignGalleys availableCo-op availableAdvance reader copies (print and digital)National media campaignTargeted bookseller mailingSimultaneous eBook launch

Living by the sea is both good and bad for exactly the same reason: the world ends at the horizon. That is, the world never ends. And you always expect too much. At first, you hope everything you’re waiting for will arrive one day on a boat; then you realise nothing’s going to arrive and you’ll have to go looking for it instead. I hated my city because it was both really beautiful and really ugly, and I was somewhere in the middle. The middle was the worst place to be: hardly anyone made it out of the middle. It was where the lost causes lived: there, nobody was poor enough to resign themselves to being poor forever, so they spent their lives trying to move up in the world and liberate themselves. When all attempts failed – as they usually did – their self-awareness disappeared and that’s when all was lost. My family, for example, had no self-awareness whatsoever. They’d found ways of fleeing reality, of seeing things from a long way off, looking down on it all from their castle in the sky. And most of the time, it worked.My father was a pretty useless man. He spent his days trying to resolve trivial matters that he thought were of the utmost importance in order for the world to keep on turning. Things like getting the most out of the pair of taxis we owned and making sure the drivers weren’t stealing from him. But they were always stealing from him. His friend Felix, who drove a van for a chemist, always came griping to him: I saw that waste-of-space who drives your taxi out and about... Where? On Santander Avenue, burning rubber with some little whore. My dad fired and hired drivers every day as a matter of course and this helped him, 1) to feel powerful, and 2) not to think about anything else.My mother also kept herself occupied, but with other things: every day she was involved in some family bust-up. Every day, that was her formula. As soon as my mother got out of bed she would pick up the phone, call my aunt, or my uncle, or my other aunt, and she shouted and cried and wished them dead; them and their damned mother, who was also her mother, my grandmother. Sometimes she also called my grandmother, and shouted and cried and wished her dead too, her and her damned offspring. My mother loved saying the word “damned”, she found it cathartic and liberating; although she would never have expressed it that way because she had a limited vocabulary. The third call of the day was to Don Hector, who she always sucked up to because he let her buy things on tick: Good morning, Don Hector, how are you? Could you send me a loaf of bread and half a dozen eggs? Her face awash with tears. Her formula was the same as my father’s: making sure that there were no lulls, no dead time that might cause them to look around and realise where they were: in a tiny apartment in a second-rate neighbourhood, with a sewer pipe and various bus routes running through it.I was not like them, I very quickly realised where I was, and at the age of seven I already knew that I would leave. I didn’t know when, or where I would go. When people asked me, what do you want to be when you grow up? I’d reply: a foreigner. My brother also knew that he wanted to get out of there, and he made the decisions he needed to achieve this: he quit high school to devote all his time to working out at the gym and making out with gringas he met on the beach. Because, for him, leaving meant someone taking him away. He wanted to live either in Miami or New York, he was undecided. He studied English because it would be useful in either city. Less so in Miami, that’s what his friend Rafa told him. Rafa had been out of the country once, when he was very young. I liked Rafa because he had got out, and that was something to be admired. But then I met Gustavo, who had not left but arrived, and not from one country, but several.