Big Fish Eat Little Fish, a 1557 engraving of a drawing by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, provides a succinct, gory summary of conventional wisdom about corporate publishing acquisitions. A large bloated fish engorged on smaller fish lies on the riverbank, wide-eyed. Dead fish spill from its mouth. A fisherman slashes open its belly to reveal yet more small fish, several of whom are eating even smaller fish. Another fisherman is about to hook a fish using a little fish as bait. The engraving is crammed with images of greed, cannibalism, waste and folly.
In September, Hardie Grant, an independent stalwart of the Australian publishing scene, announced the acquisition of Pantera Press, a smaller independent publisher, with an eclectic list dominated by genre fiction and commercial non-fiction. This followed the news in August that Affirm Press, an indie publisher with a huge list, had been acquired by a really big fish, Simon & Schuster (S&S).
The corporate press releases were hardly Bruegelian. Pantera declared it shared with Hardie Grant “a strong alignment in … missions and values — committed to fostering creativity, supporting authors, and publishing with purpose”. The S&S presser was studded with optimistic quotes from CEOs and managing directors: everyone is thrilled, delighted, proud and excited.
Over the past decade or so, suspicion of corporate publishing acquisitions in Australia has been conditioned by major anti-trust proceedings in the United States, most recently in the Department of Justice’s successful challenge to the merger of Penguin Random House (PRH) and Simon & Schuster.
The picture of American publishing that emerged was of a sea, a market, in which five voracious fish swim, devouring smaller publishers, authors and any other bait that comes their way. Anxiety about the impact of corporate acquisitions on American literature has also surfaced in response to the publication of Dan Sinykin’s fascinating 2023 book Big Fiction, which argues that conglomeration has shaped not just the business of literature but literature itself.
The recent announcement of the 2024 National Book Awards long lists confirms these suspicions: 11 out of the 20 books on the fiction and non-fiction lists were published by Penguin Random House imprints. This was widely interpreted as evidence of PRH’s grasp on the book world, with industry observer Maris Kreizman writing:
Corporate consolidation is a threat to anyone who care about books. When there are fewer publishers, both large and small, there are fewer jobs, fewer opportunities for new voices to break out, fewer places where writers can be nurtured throughout their careers, fewer places willing to take risks on ideas that diverge from the mainstream.
This is what happens when the big fish eat all the little fish: grim times for employees, writers and, ultimately, readers. Should those of us who care about Australian books and literature be alarmed by these latest acquisitions? Our small literary world tends to operate in a state of precarious equilibrium, and any change whatsoever can sound like cause for distress.
A few observations before hitting the panic button: Australian publishing is quite unlike its US counterpart. We are, obviously, a very small pond by comparison. The enormous advances bandied around in the US anti-trust proceedings — upwards of US$250,000 — are simply not regularly in play in Australia.
It is important to also distinguish between the two acquiring parties in the news in Australia. Hardie Grant, which acquired Pantera, is itself an independent Australian publisher — unlike the multinational Simon & Schuster. And neither of these acquisitions poses the threat of a mega-fish emerging to gobble up its competitors, as was the case with the PRH/S&S merger in the US.
Our market is different too. The Big Five publishers may command Australian bestseller lists, but independent publishers are the stewards of our literary culture. The long lists of the Miles Franklin and Stella Prizes are dominated by books published by independent publishers, and by this I mean small presses such as Transit Lounge, Giramondo, Magabala and Upswell as well as slightly larger privately owned publishers such as Text, Allen and Unwin, and Scribe.
If you set store by such things, independent publishers are also over-represented on the list of the 50 best books of the 21st century compiled by The Conversation’s experts. There’s no question that important Australian books are published by the Big Five. Even so, their lists tell a narrower story about contemporary Australian literature than those published by the independents.
It’s become conventional to talk about various quarters of the cultural world as ecosystems, including publishing. The metaphor conveys the interdependencies of a healthy publishing scene. Ideally, it’s less a case of survival of the fittest, as in Bruegel’s grotesque vision, and more a symbiosis between large and small entities, between commercial publishers and micro-publishers, between superstar writers and obscure experimentalists. Let’s not strain the metaphor — in Australia, for our national literature to thrive, we need independent publishers like Pantera and Affirm to thrive.
It’s hard to claim independent Australian publishing is presently in rude health without some major caveats. Pay is notoriously low for writers and for publishing workers. The findings of a 2022 survey investigating the Australian publishing workforce were glum: not only did the sector fall short on diversity and inclusion, high rates of mental illness were reported. Booktopia went into administration and is now back in business. The existential threat of AI technologies loom. Amazon cares not a jot for the flourishing of Australian literature and nonetheless exerts a tremendous influence on the market. Universities have traditionally bolstered the independent publishing scene through their presses; right now the higher education sector is in funding crisis. And although there is greater recognition of the significance of the arts to Australian society by the Albanese government, arts and cultural funding remains woefully low.
These are, in other words, unpredictable times for people and companies in the business of making and selling books — and the absorption of two lively presses into larger entities makes observers skittish, especially those, like me, who tend to view the values of literature as fundamentally incompatible with the corporate imperative to deliver shareholder value.
These acquisitions spotlight the need to defend independent Australian publishing, and to advocate for funded policy interventions to ensure that the sector can sustain Australian literature and public intellectualism in its many forms. This means not only publishing books that nourish Australian readers and civic life, but also requiring that Australian writers and publishing workers are paid equitable rates. Without wage equity, the sector will continue to lag on meeting the diversity targets that writers, readers and governments expect of them.
Australian writers and publishers have too long struggled for both funding and attention in an arts policy environment geared to the performing and visual arts. This may change next year. The much anticipated establishment of Writing Australia in July 2025 will, the federal government promises, provide structural support to the Australian literary sector through targeted investment and policy interventions.
There is much work to be done. “Telling our own stories” lies at the heart of the Albanese government’s Revive policy. Whatever you make of this slogan, in the context of Australian publishing, it’s a mandate for vigorous support of independent publishing.
Are you concerned about the state of Australian publishing? What books from small local publishers have you read lately? Let us know your thoughts by writing to letters@crikey.com.au. Please include your full name to be considered for publication. We reserve the right to edit for length and clarity.
