Sheep, goats, God and man: Tim Winton’s The Shepherd’s Hut

When I hit the bitumen and get that smooth grey rumble going under me everything’s hell different. Like I’m in a fresh new world all slick and flat and easy. Even with the engine working up a howl and the wind flogging in the window the sounds are real soft and pillowy. Civilised I mean. Like you’re still on the earth but you don’t hardly notice it anymore. And that’s hectic. You’d think I never got in a car before. But when you’ve hoofed it like a dirty goat all these weeks and months, when you’ve had the stony slow prickle-up hard country right in your face that long it’s bloody sudden. Some crazy shit, I tell you. Brings on this angel feeling. Like you’re just one arrow of light.

 

Our culture is shackling men to a toxic misogyny that is not doing either men or women any favours, and stopping our society moving forward.

This was the subject of Winton’s electrifying speech delivered at the 2017 Perth Writer’s Week and of his latest novel, The Shepherd’s Hut.

Obviously, Winton’s hour-long speech explains his point much better than my attempt at a one-line encapsulation, so don’t argue before you listen to it (this recorded in Melbourne, but same speech).

And The Shepherd’s Hut tells the story of Jaxie Clackton, raised with domestic violence and emotional poverty, in a small town that turns a blind eye to his mother’s bruises. She won’t leave his abusive alcoholic father. Her escape is to die of cancer, leaving her teenage son to endure the thrashings alone.

It’s told in the first person, giving fucked-up, foul-mouthed Jaxie room to let loose: “the prose equivalent of a good long slug of room-temperature rum,” Good Weekend described it.

When his father dies in a sudden accident in the opening pages, Jaxie is terrified he’ll be blamed and flees north deep into the Wheatbelt. Starving and dehydrated, he comes upon a vast salt lake. And on its border, an old shepherd’s hut.

There lives Fintan, a defrocked Irish priest hiding a secret. He’s been there eight years. Twice a year someone drives in supplies and asks him to atone for his sins. He never does and the sins are never revealed, though there are hints at some kind of political scandal. He takes Jaxie in, gives him food and water, and nurses him into health and a prickly, cautious friendship.

He give me a pannikin of tea and he sat back down and drunk his slow and methodical. I looked back at that bead thing on the shelf. It was way out of place in a hut like this, in an old dude’s stuff, and he could see me sussing it out and I thought for sure he’d get on his hind legs and say fifty-nine things about it but the look on his face said that wasn’t gunna happen, like it was off limits.
Good chops, I said.

The book is highly readable. By 50 pages in, compulsion sets in and I rip through it at warp speed. Writing Jaxie, Winton lets you look straight through the eyes of a rough kid staring down the barrel of a hopeless future. He’s gone full immersion, Stanislavsky style. The voice of our country’s most famous writer is entirely subsumed by this angry little dero, all burred up like a scorpion about to strike, as his own girlfriend describes him. Winton’s not building complex characters and scenery like in his other books; it’s all narrative drive.

The writing glows like a hot coal. He builds the story like he’s building a fire, first placing your empathy, then your hope, then slowly your foreboding, priming you for the explosion you know is coming.

But it ain’t genre fiction, no matter how thrilling, and so, as with much good literary novels you’re required to do a little head scratching at the end.

My boss Fran and I were both puzzled, and we came up with zilch, so I did a little research and I present below some hints on how to think about it all. Don’t worry; no spoilers.

Think about the old priest as a Christian shepherd. He’s living in a shepherd’s hut, but there are no sheep left. Being too old to hunt roos for meat like Jaxie, he lures and traps goats into a backyard water trap to slit their throats. He does no shepherding, until he takes Jaxie in and saves his life, giving him food, drink and succour in the Christian tradition of welcoming a stranger.

The mysterious old sinner is both a bad shepherd and a good shepherd.

And the symbol of the sacrificial goat will appear again.

In the Australian Book Review, Brenda Niall says this notion of a priest atoning for sins in the desert recalls an 1850s painting by Holman Hunt, The Scapegoat.

“Hunt bought a white goat. He took the goat to the margin of the salt-encrusted Dead Sea, where he set up his easel. A piece of red cloth, representing the sins of the world, was tied to the goat’s horns,” she wrote.

“Hunt was dramatising the Old Testament text in which ‘the Goat shall bear upon him all [the people’s] iniquities unto a land not inhabited’. This, in Christian belief, is in accord with the idea of the suffering Christ as the bearer of the world’s sins and sorrows.”

Whether or not Winton was purposefully invoking this particular painting, you are left with clear symbols: a shepherd, the sacrificial goat, Jaxie as an ‘instrument of God’.

Is Jaxie receiving a sacrifice as the son of God, made in his image as Christianity tells us all people are, and therefore deserving of a brighter future?

And, more obviously: how can Jaxie avoid becoming his father, and make his own brighter future?

How can our society do better than ignoring suffering, allowing a poisonous and violent version of manhood to continue, letting evil flourish?

Winton told the New York Times his ability to describe the world he sees makes him rich despite his modest upbringing; that this book is a nod to those boys without that luxury.

“Such a narrow lexicon, range of words, strong feelings with no way of expressing them except with their fists,” he said. “That’s poverty.”

 

And I drive like that, just under the limit, with a chop in one hand and the wheel in the other. Laughing hard enough to choke. For the first time in my life I know what I want and I have what it takes to get me there. If you never experienced that I feel sorry for you.

But it wasn’t always like this. I been through fire to get here. I seen things and done things and had shit done to me you couldn’t barely credit. So be happy for me. and for fucksake don’t get in my way.

 

 

In other Winton news, two of his other Booker-shortlisted books have now been picked up for films after the success of Breath (highly recommended). Dirt Music will likely be filmed in WA. And…! My favourite Winton novel The Riders will be produced by Ridley Scott! 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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2 thoughts on “Sheep, goats, God and man: Tim Winton’s The Shepherd’s Hut

  1. Just read this as well, giving Winton another chance and attempting to find out what the fuss is about. I’m aware that there’s a lot of Winton fans out there, but I believe they let him get away with poor plots and poor representations of ‘Australian’ characters. By going along with Winton’s mode of operation, they prevent him being a truly great writer.

    Australians are more complex than any of the characters Winton has ever created. Ambiguous conclusions do not make for complex characters. What the author means, or attempts to mean, does not carry through, for me. Winton says little about the ‘real’ world, even allegorically.

    The events that the plots hinge on are truthless, as if the scenes were written first and the connections were worked out after. The main pivotal events in the story are unbelievable. The way the father loses his eye; Jaxie’s reaction to the father’s death; the traverse of geography that follows; the endless supply of animals that keep coming; the generator being audible, miraculously, after the uber-silent bobcat and truck that must have been used for the installation of the weed growing container; the constant reminder that there was always a lot to do at the hut, which, in reality, is clearly untrue; the lack of any strong female characters to bring light to the male violence; city slickers cruising around with hand guns down their pants, and so on and so forth.

    I disagree with you that The Shepards Hut isn’t genre fiction. It’s a suspense story whose only goal is to keep the reader reading, much like The Riders. It’s well written, on the level of the sentence. I found it refreshing that Winton had jettisoned the pseudo-poetic paragraphs intended for atmosphere. Breath is filled with pages and pages of these pointless paragraphs that are meant to describe the landscape in some way. If a novelist wants to be poetic, they should write poetry. But we know that poetry doesn’t sell. So ‘poetry’ and ‘prose’ are bastardised. If you want to transcend genre you do it from the inside out, you don’t fusion narrative techniques with ambivalence.

    What does sell are modern day reproductions of Mark Twain characters minus the crucial interactions between those characters and a society. Winton’s character doesn’t have to wrestle with 60,000 years of traditional owners. Jaxie can be racist because he doesn’t know better, but no-one challenges him, not even the land. Not even a pathetic fallacy. Jaxie is not transformed in any way resembling the transformation that Huck Finn experiences, not because he is incapable, but because Winton maintains a subservience to his own notion of ‘literature’, rather than the messiness of the ‘real’ world. Winton’s rule is not merely to represent racist ignorant Australian characters, but to give them to us ‘ironically’. However the irony isn’t subverted. Winton doesn’t subvert his own representation.

    A much better story would be if ‘The Shephard’ helped kill his father and they’re on the run together. Without the ‘river’, without the chance encounters with a broader people, Winton says little about male violence, and less about the character’s he’s created.

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