I guess it must be a time-of-life thing, looking back and trying to make some sense of who I am and where… — Tim Winton Copy Share Image
I don't think it's people's utterances that limit the writing. It's the activity itself. It's actually pretty hard to convey to someone… — Tim Winton Copy Share Image
Life is wild by definition. And organic existence is violent. Though I find this hard to accept. And I know it goes… — Tim Winton Copy Share Image
Ah, but you, Darkness, you know all this. I tell you night after night. Nothing will shock you. Maybe I go on… — Tim Winton Copy Share Image
It is hard for me to speak of themes. I like the reader to do that. Otherwise it feels like writing a… — Tim Winton Copy Share Image
Wherever I went I felt like the last person awake in a room full of sleepers — Tim Winton Copy Share Image
“Where I had expected to appreciate the monuments and love the natural environment, the reality was entirely the reverse. The immense beauty of many… — Tim Winton Copy Share Image
I've been a writer and a parent since adolescence, it feels like, and I'm still making both gigs up as I go along. I… — Tim Winton Copy Share Image
Surviving is the strongest memory I have; the sense of having walked on water. — Tim Winton Copy Share Image
“Few landscapes have been so deeply known. And fewer still have been so lightly inhabited.” — Tim Winton Copy Share Image
“Life was something you didn't argue with, because when it came down to it, whether you barracked for God or nothing at all, life… — Tim Winton Copy Share Image
“Shit, he said as a great, green glut of water poured up at our feet. I wonder what the ordinary people are doin today.” — Tim Winton Copy Share Image
I guess it must be a time-of-life thing, looking back and trying to make some sense of who I am and where I've been.… — Tim Winton Copy Share Image
Will you look at us by the river! The whole restless mob of us on spread blankets in the dreamy briny sunshine skylarking and… — Tim Winton Copy Share Image
The night is full of stories. They float up like miasmas, as though the dead leave their dreams in the earth where you bury… — Tim Winton Copy Share Image
