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Like all literature worthy of the name, Breath does not impose choices or solutions but draws its life-breath from paradox and ambivalence.

There is nothing frivolous or superficial here.

Winton’s descriptions of changing seas and changing seasons are outstanding. The novel’s complexity is poetic, psychological and ethical. Breath discloses itself as a grand metaphysical fable but one so tactful and restrained that it would be easy to miss its boldness and complexity. The great distinction of Winton’s novel lies, however, in areas more abstract, poetic and disturbing. Melissa Katsoulis, The Telegraph (UK)Īt one level Breath is a marvellously evocative remembrance of things past. May the Lord make us truly thankful for Tim Winton.

Jennifer Schuessler, New York TimesĪ wonderfully uplifting novel. A tautly gorgeous meditation on the inescapable human addiction to “the monotony of drawing breath,” whether you want to or not. Winton rides the line between terror, joy and hokum with exquisite balance. I loved it – Tom Sawyer searching for Moby-Dick in a David Lynch film. It will surely be a classic of Australian literature, enjoyed and admired by all who read it. It is difficult to avoid superlatives in any honest summary of the importance of this novel. Colm Tóibín, The Guardian (UK)Ī masterpiece. It is written with great tenderness and sympathy and rhythmic energy, and structured with immense skill. But against all this pointless sorrow, there remains the evanescent beauty of the world, and Winton matches that with limitlessly beautiful prose. Philip Hensher, The Spectator (UK)īreath is about moving out of your depth, getting in over your head, having your soul damaged beyond repair.

Breath seems to cut through everything, and to speak with unusual honesty. Andrew Reimer, Sydney Morning HeraldĪ novelist who, to a peerless degree, has learnt how to do it. This brilliant book may well turn out to be the finest thing that Winton has done. James Bradley, The AgeĪn absorbing, powerful and deeply beautiful novel, a meditation on surfing which becomes a rumination about the very stuff of existence. Its seeming simplicity is deceptive, for beneath its pared-back surfaces lies all the steel of a major novelist operating at full throttle in a territory he has spent 25 years making his own. It’s unlikely Winton has ever written as well as he writes in Breath.