Eyrie Quotes

“He was free and unencumbered. Which is to say alone and unemployed.”
― Tim Winton, Eyrie

“Thinks the sun shines out yer clacker.”
― Tim Winton, Eyrie

“You look great, he said. Oh, get fucked, she said, grinning.”
― Tim Winton, Eyrie

“I meant to slip away, he said, busking it now.”
― Tim Winton, Eyrie

“Keely's pulse quickened. A stab of apprehension. He was the same at any live performance, suddenly anxious for the players. So stupid; these people were professional muscicians. But the way his throat narrowed they could have all been kds at a school recital. His kids.”
― Tim Winton, Eyrie

“He'd worn himself ragged with second-guessing until his head felt like a tinful of bees.”
― Tim Winton, Eyrie

“You've been busy, he said.
Want something done, ask a busy person.”
― Tim Winton, Eyrie

“Here, said the nuggety bald fixture. You look dry as a camel’s cookie.”
― Tim Winton, Eyrie

“Rare as rocking-horse turds, these days, feeling halfway to decent, with barely a sick twinge, and he was damned if he’d waste”
― Tim Winton, Eyrie

“Every vegetable, every bit of protein on the list had a provenance more complex than a minor Rembrandt.”
― Tim Winton, Eyrie

“Glamour-hounds and donor-hogs they may be but he loved them.”
― Tim Winton, Eyrie

“You must know somebody. To get a table Saturday night. Bollocks, she said. I promised we’d arrive early, eat like pokie machines — And tip like a Haulpak truck, eh? Money, she said with a sigh. They’re right. It talks. But wouldn’t it be lovely if now and then it had something interesting to say.”
― Tim Winton, Eyrie

“She loved him, her compassion seemed boundless, but her disappointment smarted more than any other humiliation. Problem was she thought he was strong, still judged him accordingly, and did not yet know he was lost.”
― Tim Winton, Eyrie

“Didn’t even read the papers anymore. Tried not to, at least. Had no need of more stories about ‘clean coal’. The national daily prosecuting its long war against climate science. Didn’t matter which rag you read, it would be another instalment about the triumph of capital. One more fawning profile of a self-made iron heiress and he’d mix himself a Harpic Wallbanger and be done with it. Just to get the fucking taste out of his mouth. You didn’t even need to look. You knew what to expect. The summer ration of shark stories and prissy scandals about the same coked-up footballer between episodes of soul-searching about shopping hours. Made your kidneys boil for shame. Nah, the news only upheld what you understood already. What you feared and hated. How things were and would be. It was no help. Neither was the plonk, of course – only fair to concede that. Like the news, drinking offered more confirmation than consolation. And it was so much easier to fill a void than to contemplate it. Still gnashing at that meatless bone. Let it go. Concentrate on choking down the morning’s free-range analgesics. And stay vertical.”
― Tim Winton, Eyrie