Dirt Music

Dirt Music

by Tim Winton

Paperback(Reprint)

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780743228480
Publisher: Scribner
Publication date: 04/22/2003
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 416
Sales rank: 313,792
Product dimensions: 5.25(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.90(d)

About the Author

Tim Winton grew up on the coast of Western Australia, where he continues to live. He is the author of eighteen books. His epic novel Cloudstreet was adapted for the theater and has been performed around the world. His two most recent novels, Dirt Music and The Riders, were both shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize. He has won the prestigious Miles Franklin Award three times, and in 1998 the Australian National Trust declared Winton a national living treasure. The Turning has already won the 2005 Christina Stead Prize for Fiction.

Read an Excerpt

from Part One

One night in November, another that had somehow become morning while she sat there, Georgie Jutland looked up to see her pale and furious face reflected in the window. Only a moment before she'd been perusing the blueprints for a thirty-two-foot Pain Clark from 1913 which a sailing enthusiast from Manila had posted on his website, but she was bumped by the server and was overtaken by such a silly rush of anger that she had to wonder what was happening to her. Neither the boat nor the bloke in Manila meant a damn thing to her; they were of as little consequence as every other site she'd visited in the last six hours. In fact, she had to struggle to remember how she'd spent the time. She had traipsed through the Uffizi without any more attention than a footsore tourist. She'd stared at a live camera image of a mall in the city of Perth, been to the Frank Zappa fan club of Brazil, seen Francis Drake's chamberpot in the Tower of London and stumbled upon a chat group for world citizens who yearned to be amputees.

Logging on — what a laugh. They should have called it stepping off. When Georgie sat down before the terminal she was gone in her seat, like a pensioner at the pokies, gone for all money. Into that welter of useless information night after night to confront people and notions she could do without. She didn't know why she bothered except that it ate time. Still, you had to admit that it was nice to be without a body for a while; there was an addictive thrill in being of no age, no gender, with no past. It was an infinite sequence of opening portals, of menus and corridors that let you into brief, painless encounters, where what passed for life was a listless kind of browsing. World without consequence, amen. And in it she felt light as an angel. Besides, it kept her off the sauce.

She swivelled in her seat, snatched up the mug and recoiled as her lips met the cold sarcoma that had formed on the coffee's surface. Beyond her reflection in the window the moony sea seemed to shiver.

Georgie got up and padded across to the kitchen which was separated from the living space by the glossy rampart of benches and domestic appliances. From the freezer she pulled out a bottle and poured herself a serious application of vodka. She stood a while staring back at the great merging space of the livingroom. It was big enough not to seem crowded, despite the fact that it held an eight-seater dining table, the computer station and the three sofas corralled around the TV at the other end. The whole seaward wall of this top floor was glass and all the curtains were thrown back. Between the house and the lagoon a hundred metres away there was only the front lawn and a few scrubby dunes. Georgie slugged the vodka down at a gulp. It was all sensation and no taste, exactly how a sister once described her. She smiled and put the glass down too loudly on the draining board. A little way along the hall Jim was asleep. The boys were downstairs.

She pulled back the sliding door and stepped out onto the terrace where the air was cool and thick with the smells of stewing seagrass, of brine and limey sand, of thawing bait and the savoury tang of saltbush. The outdoor furniture was beaded with dew. There wasn't breeze enough yet to stir the scalloped hems of the Perrier brolly, but dew this time of year was a sign of wind on the way. White Point sat in the teeth of the Roaring Forties. Here on the midwest coast the wind might not be your friend but it was sure as hell your constant neighbour.

Georgie stood out there longer than was comfortable, until her breasts ached from the chill and her hair felt as though it was shrinking. She saw the moon tip across the lagoon until its last light caught on bow rails and biminis and windscreens, making mooring buoys into fitful, flickering stars. And then it was gone and the sea was dark and blank. Georgie lingered on the cold slate. So much for the real world; these days it gave her about as much pleasure as a childhood dose of codliver oil.

On the beach something flashed. At four o'clock in the morning it was probably just a gull, but it gave a girl a start. It was darker now than it had been all night; she couldn't see a thing.

Sea air misted on her skin. The chill burned her scalp.

Georgie wasn't a morning person but as a shiftworker she'd seen more than her share of dawns. Like all those Saudi mornings when she'd arrive back at the infidels' compound to loiter outside after her colleagues went to bed. In stockinged feet she would stand on the precious mat of lawn and sniff the Jeddah air in the hope of catching a whiff of pure sea breeze coming across the high perimeter wall. Sentimental attachment to geography irritated her, Australians were riddled with it and West Australians were worst of all, but there was no point in denying that the old predawn ritual was anything more than bog-standard homesickness, that what she was sniffing for was the highball mix you imbibed every night of your riverside Perth childhood, the strange briny effervescence of the sea tide stirring in the Swan River, into its coves, across the estuarine flats. But in Jeddah all she ever got for her trouble was the fumy miasma of the corniche, the exhaust of Cadillacs and half a million aircon units blasting Freon at the Red Sea.

And now here she was, years later, soaking in clean, fresh Indian Ocean air with a miserable, prophylactic determination. Sailor, diver and angler though she was, Georgie knew that these days the glories of the outdoors were wasted on her.

There was no use in going to bed now. Jim would be up in less than an hour and she'd never get to sleep before then unless she took a pill. What was the point in lying down in time for him to sit up and take his first steeling sigh of the day? Jim Buckridge needed no alarm, somehow he was wired to be early. He was your first out and last in sort of fisherman; he set the mark that others in the fleet aspired to. Inherited, so everybody said. By the time he was out of the lagoon and through the passage in the reef with the bird-swirling island on his starboard beam, the whole bay would be burbling with diesels and the others would be looking for the dying phosphor of his wake.

At seven the boys would clump in, fuddled and ready for breakfast, though somehow in the next hour they would become less and less ready for school. She'd make their lunches — apple sandwiches for Josh and five rounds of Vegemite for Brad. Then finally they'd crash out the back door and Georgie might switch on the VHF and listen to the fleet while she went through the business of keeping order in a big house. And then and then and then.

Down at the beach it wasn't a gull, that blur of movement; there was a flash of starlight on wet metal. Right there, in the shadow of the foredune along the bay. And now the sound of a petrol engine, eight cylinders.

Georgie peered, made a tunnel with her hands to focus in the dark. Yes. Two hundred metres along the beach, a truck wheeling around to reverse toward the shore. No headlamps, which was curious. But the brakelights gave it away; they revealed a pink-lit boat on a trailer, a centre console. Small, maybe less than six metres. Not a professional boat. Even abalone boats had big yellow licence markings. No sportfisherman launched a boat with such stealth an hour before Jim Buckridge got out of bed.

Georgie grabbed a windcheater from inside and stood in the hallway a few moments. The plodding clock, a snore, appliances whirring. The vodka still burned in her belly. She was shaky with caffeine, and restless. What the hell, she thought. A moment of unscripted action in White Point. You had to go and see.

Underfoot the lawn was delicious with dew, and warmer than she expected. She crossed its mown pelt to the foredune and the sand track to the beach. Even without the moon the white sand around the lagoon was luminescent and powdery. Where the tide had been and gone the beach was hard and rippled.

Somewhere in the dark an outboard started. So muted it had to be a four-stroke. It idled briefly and as it throttled up she saw for only a moment the hint of a white wake on the lagoon. Whether it was surreptitious or merely considerate, the whole procedure was extraordinary in its quiet and speed. A bird's wings whopped by, invisible but close as a whisper; the sound prickled Georgie's skin like the onset of the flu.

Along the beach a dog blurred about. When she got closer she saw it was chained to the truck. It growled, seemed to draw itself up to bark then hesitate.

The big galvanized trailer was still leaking seawater when she reached it. The dog whined eloquently. Steel links grated against the Ford's barwork. An F-100, the 4x4 model. Redneck Special. The dog yanked against the chain. It launched itself into a sprawl, seemed more eager than angry.

Georgie bent down to the shadow of the dog and felt its tongue hot on her palms. Its tail drummed against the fender. She saw seagrass trailing from the driver's step, black shreds against the talcum sand.

Hmm, she murmured. Are you a nice dog?

The dog sat, got all erect and expectant at the sound of her voice. It was a kelpie-heeler sort of mutt, a farm dog, your garden variety livewire fencejumping mongrel. All snout and chest and balls. She liked it already.

Good dog, she murmured. Yeah, good fella.

The dog craned toward the water.

Feel like a swim, eh?

Bugger it, she thought, why not.

She stripped off and laid her clothes on the truck. The blouse was past its use-by date; she picked it up, sniffed it and tossed it back.

Unleashed, the dog flashed out across the sand in a mad tanglefooted arc. Georgie belted down to the water and ploughed in blind. Her reckless dive brought to mind the paraplegic ward. She felt the percussion of the dog hitting the water behind her and struck out in her lazy schoolgirl freestyle until she was amidst moored lobster boats with their fug of corrosion and birdshit and pilchards. Behind her the dog snuffed along gamely, snout up, with a bow wave you could feel on your back.

Stars were dropping out now. A couple of houses had lights on. One of them had to be Jim. Puzzled, perhaps.

Out on the seagrass meadows where the lagoon tasted a little steeped, she trod water for a while and picked out Jim's house on the dune. It was a bare white cube, a real bauhaus shocker and the first of its kind in White Point. Locals once called it the Yugoslav Embassy but these days nearly every owner-skipper had himself a trophy house built with the proceeds of the rock lobster boom.

Jim would be in the bathroom now, holding himself up against the tiled wall, scratching his chin, loosening his back, feeling his age. Despite his reputation he still seemed to her a decent man, decent enough to spend three years with, and for Georgie Jutland that was a record.

She imagined him back in the kitchen, boiling water for his thermos, doing a room-by-room, wondering. He'd step outside to scan the yard and maybe the beach and take in the state of the sky and the sea, gauge the wind while he was there. He'd go inside and get his kit together for eight or ten hours at sea. And if she didn't arrive? When his deckhands turned up in the old Hilux in their beanies and fog of brewer's breath, with the dinghy lashed across the tray like a cattle trough, what then? Did she really give a toss anymore? A few months ago she would have been tucked up in bed. Not swimming nude in the bay with some stranger's cur entertaining mutinous thoughts. But recently something in her had leaked away. Vaporized in a moment.

The dog circled her patiently — well, doggedly, in fact — and in every hair and pore Georgie felt the shimmer of water passing over her body. After weeks of the virtual, it was queer and almost painful to be completely present.

Georgie thought of that afternoon a few months ago and the meek puff of steam she had become in the boys' playroom. She could barely believe that a single word might do her in. As a nurse she'd copped a swill of curses, from dying men and girls in labour, from junkies and loonies, princesses and smartarses. Patients said vile things in extremis. You'd think a woman could withstand three simple syllables like stepmother. But the word came so hot and wet and sudden, screamed into her face by a nine-year-old whose night terrors she'd soothed, whose body she'd bathed and held so often, whose grief-muddy daubs she'd clamped to the fridge, that she didn't even hear the sentence it came wrapped in. She just lurched back in her seat like a woman slapped. Stepmother. The word had never been uttered in the house before, let alone fired in anger. It was fair in its way; she understood that. Along with his need to win, his desire to wound, Josh was merely clarifying her status. She could still see his face wrinkled and sphinctery with rage. It was his geriatric face waiting for him. For the sake of a moronic video game he was defining her out of his life while his brother Brad, who was eleven, looked on in silent disgust. As she got up to leave Georgie was ashamed of the sob that escaped her. None of them had seen Jim leaning in the doorway. There was a universal intake of breath. Georgie left the room before a word was uttered, before she let herself break down completely. She ducked beneath his arm and scrambled upstairs to bawl into a teatowel until she was steady enough to slop chardonnay into a glass. Jim's voice was quiet and ominous rising up the stairwell. She realized that he was about to hit them and she knew she should go down and put a stop to it but it was over before she could take herself in hand. It had never happened before, none of it. Later Georgie wondered if it really was the S-word that had broken the spell or the knowledge that she might have spared the boys a belting and hadn't even tried. Either way nothing was the same.

That was late autumn. Within a few weeks she turned forty and she was careful to let that little landmark slide by unheralded. By spring and the onset of the new season she was merely going through the motions. Another man, an American, had once told her in a high, laughing moment his theory of love. It was magic, he said. The magic ain't real, darlin, but when it's gone it's over.

Georgie didn't want to believe in such thin stuff, that all devotion was fuelled by delusion, that you needed some spurious myth to keep you going in love or work or service. Yet she'd felt romance evaporate often enough to make her wonder. And hadn't she woken one heartsick morning without a reason to continue as a nurse? Her career had been a calling, not just a job. Wasn't that sudden emptiness, the loss of some ennobling impulse, the sign of a magic gone?

In her time Georgie Jutland had been a sailor of sorts, so she knew exactly what it meant to lose seaway, to be dead in the water. She recognized the sensation only too well. And that spring she had slipped overboard without a sound.

That's how it felt sculling about in the lagoon this morning while the sky went felty above her. Woman overboard. With nowhere to swim. What was she gonna do, strike out for the fringing reef, head on out into open water, take on the Indian Ocean in her birthday suit with a liberated mongrel sidekick? Stroke across the Cray Bank, the Shelf, the shipping lane, the Ninety East Ridge? To Africa? Georgie, she told herself, you're a woman who doesn't even own a car anymore, that's how mobile and independent you are. You used to frighten the mascara off people, render surgeons speechless. Somewhere, somehow, you sank into a fog.

She lay back in the water wishing some portal would open, that she might click on some dopey icon and proceed safely, painlessly, without regret or memory.

The dog whined and tried to scramble onto her for a breather. She sighed and struck out for shore.

In the wreckyard behind his roadhouse a bear-like man in a pair of greasy overalls had a last toke on his wizened reefer and shifted his weight off the hood of the Valiant which some dick had recently driven off the end of the jetty. It was his morning ritual, the dawn patrol. A piss on the miserable oleander and a little suck on the gigglyweed to soften the facts of life.

The light was murky yet. You could feel a blow coming on, another endless screaming bloody southerly. He snuffed out his tiny roach-end on the Valiant's sandy paintjob and shoved the remains through the kelp-laced grille near the radiator.

From the beach track, between the dunes and the lobster depot, came a trailer clank and a quiet change of gears. There was plenty enough light to see the truck and the boat behind it spilling bilgewater as it pulled out onto the blacktop.

Fuck me sideways, he said aloud. You bloody idiot.

The V8 eased up along the tiny main drag, fading off in the distance.

Beaver slouched off toward the forecourt to unlock the pumps. A man could do with a friggin blindfold in this town. And get his jaw wired shut while he was at it.

Inside at the register he tossed the padlocks down and pawed through his CDs. Tuesday. Cream, maybe. Or The Who Live at Leeds. No. Fiddler on the Roof, it was.

He opened the register, closed it, and gazed up the empty street. You silly bugger.

Copyright © 2001 by Tim Winton

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Dirt Music 4.1 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 23 reviews.
traveltrish on LibraryThing 22 days ago
Doorway - Setting, CharacterStyle - Descriptive well written chapters that evoke a strong images of country, seaside WA. Chapters vary in length in that some are extremely short and others longReviewThe story is set in a small seaside town called Whitepoint and its three main characters have one thing in common - shattered pasts. I found this a very appealing and well written book. The main character Georgie is initially not likeable but Winton develops her character to such an extent that you grow do like and understand her as she struggles to sort out her life at 40 in coastal WA.His descriptive vernacular writing helps to bring alive the "Australianess" of the characters. The ongoing mystery background of Georgie's partner Jim makes the story a page turner. Whilst not renown for happy endings this one has a relatively good one.
SMG-JMonester on LibraryThing 25 days ago
This book is a very touching and emotional book. The characters go through different stages in this book such as boredom to exitement.
Niecierpek on LibraryThing 25 days ago
Very much Australian. I read Winton's The Riders before, and there Australia and Europe were juxtaposed and sort of mingled, a bit Henry James' way, but this one is very much Australian, and takes place on the west coast of it- in beautiful and singular surroundings. The action starts in a fishing village, full of tough people making a tough living in a tough climate. There is a relationship triangle, and a lot of family and place secrets, and a lot of gorgeous nature, and then a quest, for all three of the main characters. It was quite good.
Scrabblenut on LibraryThing 25 days ago
I first read the novel Breath by Tim Winton and was completely entranced, so I had to try some more of his books. Dirt Music does not disappoint. Tim Winton's writing is magical, and I was transported to Western and Northern Australia, as Lu Fox tries to survive in a world that has taken everyone and everything he loves. This is a complex book where things are slowly revealed and you feel sympathy for all the characters. Savour it. Highly recommended.
zmagic69 on LibraryThing 25 days ago
I bought my first Tim Winton book "Breath" at Compass books (one of the best airport bookstores) in SFO airport, ironically enough on my way to Australia. I did not realize the author was Australian, until I began reading. Breath was Wonderful, but Dirt Music goes even further. A wonderful story of loss, rejection, tragedy, but also it is about forgiveness, and redemption. I can't recommend this book too much. Luther Fox loses his family in a freak accident, and spends the next year living ¿off the grid¿ and poaching fish.Georgie goes from one failed relationship to another until the beginning of the book where she has been married to Jim for 3 loveless years. When Luther and Georgie meet, they find what has been missing in their lives, but set off a chain reaction neither could anticipate, not resolve.This is a wonderful book.
Rue_full on LibraryThing 25 days ago
Winner of a prestigious yearly award down under, Dirt Music creates a multi-textural experience of a quietly desperate love affair between an unlikely couple of loners. Winton explores alternate communication in this novel; the protagonists rarely say anything memorable, which speaks to those of us who suffer from the same malady of introversion. Instead, the characters express, feel, and ultimately live, through what they do - she heals through nursing and medicine, he has an elemental affinity with music. Haunting characterizations make this a novel you can never forget.
laytonwoman3rd on LibraryThing 25 days ago
Set at the turn of this century in a West Australian fishing village with a rugged history, Dirt Music gives us life lived upside down and backwards, and for a while it isn't easy to decide who we ought to sympathize with. Georgie Jutland, a burnt out nurse, has a bit of a history herself, but has tentatively settled in with widower Jim Buckridge, a successful commercial fisherman, and his two young sons. His past is mostly a mystery to her, although his reputation for revenge-oriented violence is no secret. His marriage and his wife's death are taboo subjects. Soon she becomes drawn into the life of Luther Fox, an unlicensed "shamateur" fisherman flirting with disaster by poaching abalone and lobsters. Buckridge and Fox are destined to be rivals for Georgie as well as for their marine quarry, but each will face a far more complex personal struggle to come to grips with himself. Their stories are layered and mingled beautifully, leading to a resolution that you won't see coming from very far away. Winton's writing is brilliant. Sentence after sentence, even whole paragraphs, demand to be re-read, not for their sense, but for their beauty and force. Dirt Music is a symphony.
maggieball on LibraryThing 29 days ago
Dirt Music is one of those books that gets under your skin. Comes into your bed with you; changes your dreams; travels with you throughout the mundane details of everyday life. Winton's descriptive prose works both externally in its depiction of the natural land - the sea and desert of Western Australia which makes up its setting, and internally, in the way it goes deep inside the pain and anxieties of its characters, as they struggle to free themselves from tremendous damage, and paralysis.
debnance on LibraryThing 29 days ago
Bleak story of bleak characters in a bleak world that seemed very honest. Recommended.
liehtzu on LibraryThing 29 days ago
Brilliant book with extraordinary stark yet poetic prose. I've never been to Western Australia but I swear I could smell the place - and the people! I loved his flawed and human characters. My only complaint is that a glossary of Aussie slang would not have gone astray.
BlackSheepDances on LibraryThing 29 days ago
I finished Dirt Music (Tim Winton) with a sense of loss. I was sorry to see the story end, especially as no clear conclusion was reached. That's okay, I'm a grownup, I can handle there not being a defined ending (I've given up on happy endings). Without giving any spoilers, a few thoughts:Tim Winton is so detailed and thorough that you get a sense of every detail in the scenes. The weather, the feel of the dust on your skin, the smells of the eucalyptus, as well as the emotions of the character are felt, not simply read. I didn't care for the main female character, I thought she was unsympathetic and apathetic to other characters, even the one she loves. The male lead is great, but of course, it's fiction! He has to be THAT perfect to make it work. The main themes are overcoming your own personality flaws, and the fear of being left behind. Winton's main character Lu has lost everyone he loves; on this journey he meets several characters that could represent those faces from his past. He also has to face the reality that his own perceptions from the past may have been wrong. Horrifyingly so.Rumor has it that this will become a film. Rachel Weisz is signed to play Georgia, which sounds fine. But there is a bit of a mystery regarding Russell Crowe and Colin Farrell. IMDB, the movie database, lists Colin as playing Lu. However, another report says Russell would play Lu. The other main male character, Jim, is pretty fascinating: he could be played by Russell but defintely not Colin. So I'm not sure which is accurate. I hope that Russell plays Lu, but he could do the character Jim Buckridge with a bit of a evil streak which might be interesting to see. I'd be very interested to see how a screenplay could be written to show the amount of time passing as well as do justice to the Australian terrain and the long stretches without dialogue. My first reaction was that it would be compared with Tom Hank's Castaway. I think Russell could carry that, I don't think Colin has that much depth. Anyway, this book had me take out the atlas, the dictionary, and use Google several times to see the trees and earthforms he describes. I think a geologist would particularly like this book, lots of rock talk.Lastly, I've noticed that in the three Winton books I've read that Winton seems to idolize children, almost in a mythological way. That's not a bad thing, but it just seems that the children in his books develop almost a fairy like quality of mystery and perfection.
edwinbcn on LibraryThing 29 days ago
I never found the way into this book. Boring characters, in a boring place, where nothing happens. This book was not for me.
tixylix on LibraryThing 29 days ago
I really enjoyed this book and it kept me turning the pages till the end. I read it in a couple of days, so pretty fast for me! The story is set in White Point in Australia, a town dominated by the fishing trade, and is focused on Georgie. She's a bit of a nomad, drifting around the world when the whim takes her and ending up in a relationship with a man in White Point whom she comes to realise is not the right man for her. The story is thrilling at points, very slow at others and conjured up the atmosphere of a hot, dry country where the sun can be your enemy. Recommended.
MelmoththeLost on LibraryThing 5 months ago
Well this was a splendid read, and particularly enjoyable for the vividness with which Winton conjures up images of the coast and small towns of Western Australia and lush tropical northern coast of the continent. The interplay of the relationships between the three central characters and the roles of their respective pasts and backgrounds in shaping the action of the novel is very well handled indeed, and the characters themselves are never less than engaging as human beings even at those points when you'd probably rather not know them if they were your neighbours.Winton's another new author to me whose work I'd like to read more of.
bcquinnsmom on LibraryThing 5 months ago
no spoilers, just synopsisI'd definitely recommend this book, but I think something got lost in translation for me personally since I've never been to Australia and could only try to envision the places Winton talks about in here. Landscape (geographical in its relation to human) is such an integral part of this novel that I feel sort of left out not ever having seen any of the place. Set in a fictional place called White Point, a fishing town, the novel focuses on three people: Georgie Jutland who was always the rebel daughter in her family, a nurse & is now living with Jim Buckridge, whose family has always been that family that is never crossed by anyone in town, or the one whose judgment of people becomes the norm for others; his dad was feared and that fear has carried on down to Jim. Finally there is Luther Fox (Lu), who lost his brother, his brother's wife (who played music for a living and played at home for the enjoyment of it all) & his niece and nephew in a stupid car accident and resolved never to hear or play music again. Luther is a shamateur -- a poacher, who gets up long before all of the other fishermen, encroaches on their territories and sells his fish to make good $. To make a long synopsis short, Lu & Georgie begin a relationship, Jim finds out, Lu's dog is killed, truck demolished and Lu decides that the Buckridge power in the town is no match and that he will be leaving. Jim has is own issues...and wants to confront Lu if only to prove he can be different from his father, and so goes out in search of Lu with Georgie along. Lu, it seems, took off on the road going north, and it is only when he is forced to live without the company of others on an uninhabited island that he can come to terms with his own existence & meaning -- what he calls earlier "dirt music." So in a sense, all three characters are seeking the same thing, but all within the scope of their own personal existential realities.I enjoyed most the scenes in which Lu is hitching rides up north and going through the different landscapes both of geography and of human existence, especially portrayed in the people Lu meets on his travels. I would definitely recommend the book; it is well worth the reading, and Winton is becoming one of my favorite authors.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
The end.
superbellman More than 1 year ago
After reading dirt music one comes away with a sense of how harsh a country Australia can be even in the settled areas, not even considering the severe outback. The story is set in a small community primarily engaged in commercial fishing at a time when e-mail is a accepted means of communication. Strong feelings play out when the laws of the highly regulated industry are violated, with enforcement traditionally of a vigilante nature. As are most stories, this is a love story and you cant help but fall in love with Georgie Jutland, her lack of inhibitions, who will swim naked when she feels like it, and when she falls in love not much can stop her. Tim Winton is a good story teller and his easy to read style and knowledge of life in a this challenging setting makes for an interesting heartfelt read. I would highly recommend this book.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Guest More than 1 year ago
Compelled by the landscape I was kept by the characters and their almost unreal relations. Call me simple but i found the characters to be slightly eccentric yet their actions and reactions to be nothing but boldly human. Each character had something I could identitfy with and under it all it was love that was the motivating force ensuring calamities and overcoming tradgedies. I loved reading 'Dirt Music', it's rich and deep with heart, each character is a contradiction and and it is only in the last quarter of the book that I was able to see into their hearts. At books end i understood a liitle more of humanity and possibly myself.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book is very human with flaws and joys-- big and small. Worth the read!!! Great sights of Australia. Good prose!
Guest More than 1 year ago
I found "Dirt Music" a somewhat boring and highly over rated novel. The author, in my opinion, became overly involved in his discriptive passages, and, in the process lost touch with the reader. In many places this over descripiveness hindered the way in which the story flowed. It was very much a tragic story about nothing. From that I feel for all 2003 TEE litterature students. For they will be compelled to write essays as to why it was such a great novel, when in my opinion it is not worthy of that title.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I finished reading this book twenty minutes ago. For the first ten minutes I hugged the book to myself not wanting to let it go. In the second ten I made myself a drink of Wild Turkey to celebrate. I then felt the need to discuss it with somone else. The book leaves you with a need for conectedness. I could not be solitary in my celebration. I did not feel the need to run but to stay and shout and be joyous and sing. To sing about dirt music. To sing dirt music. The prose is mesmerising. I found myself reading passages over and over just to swim into them. I could feel the labour that went into the writing of the book and many times I felt myself thanking the author for his work. Its a book about death and life and landscape and love and betrayal and revelation and forgiveness. The characters have flesh and bone and faults and virtues that we can all relate to. As in all Tim Wintons novels the landscape features prominently and you can feel yourself recognising the settings and situations. Its a book written to be a bloody good story and I recommend it to anyone.