Dirt Music: A Novel

Dirt Music: A Novel

Tim Winton

Language: English

Pages: 416

ISBN: 0743228480

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Winner of The Miles Franklin Literary Award, The Christina Stead Award, WA Premier’s Book of the Year, Book Data/ABA Book of the Year Award, Goodreading Award-Readers Choice Book of the Year

Set in the dramatic landscape of Western Australia, Dirt Music tells the story of Luther Fox, a broken man who makes his living as an illegal fisherman—a shamateur. Before everyone in his family was killed in a freak rollover, Fox grew melons and counted stars and loved playing his guitar. Now, his life has become a “project of forgetting.” Not until he meets Georgie Jutland, the wife of White Point’s most prosperous fisherman, does Fox begin to dream again and hear the dirt music—“anything you can play on a verandah or porch,” he tells Georgie, “without electricity.” Like the beat of a barren heart, nature is never silent. Ambitious and perfectly calibrated, Dirt Music resonates with suspense, emotion, and timeless truths.

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he murmured, you think it’ll be my fault? Go to sleep. I want to know if you’ll blame me. Jim, I’ll hardly think about you. Either way. He bolted from White Point for a reason. Because he thought I was coming for him. Well, apparently you weren’t. Christ. It’s like the past keeps at you. Whatever you do, however you change. Georgie lay there a while. You could leave White Point, she said. Why not start over? Sounds a bit wet, but maybe you need to forgive yourself. All this talk about

drinks at his stream till he’s ready to burst and then he just wallows in the trickle of it. He knows they’ve been here. Someone’s kicked the crap out of the place. He doesn’t care. She’s there. It’s her. He limps through the amorous boabs with the net and makes a couple of weak throws. He fills the billy with whiting on the last of the tide. He pulls up some spinifex and lays it over the oystery rocks at the end of his cove and when he lights it the stuff flares and crackles. With a few more

arrangement. On the drive back this afternoon hadn’t she resolved to tell him she was leaving, that she planned to do it gradually, placidly, for the sake of the boys? Now the idea sounded like nothing more than a month’s notice. Obviously, he said, flouring the chicken awkwardly, we need to talk. Yes, she said. I suppose we do. But not tonight. Let it go tonight. Bloody Cruiser. I don’t know what it was. They can get us the moon but can they get us to the shop. You look awful, Georgie. Get

because Jerra was in Los Angeles for the week. She realized that this was the first time in three years that she’d done anything as simply social as this—invite a friend over for a cup of tea. God, how isolated, how uncertain she’d become. Have you seen Beaver lately? Rachel asked, smoothing down her frock with the palms of her hands. Georgie shook her head with a pang of guilt and poured the tea. Last night, said Rachel, I went over to rent a movie from him and there was a four-wheel-drive

easily imagine him with his dander up, but his face was brightened by a steady sardonic amusement that rendered him instantly likeable. He wore a long-billed cap that was stained with salt and he had the wide, crusty feet of a man who rarely wore shoes. The shorts and teeshirt were bog-standard western male get-up but the red bandana round his neck was close to flamboyant. His fingers were scarred and blunt and his nails were bitten to the quick. White Point, he said with a rueful laugh. I know

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