The south west part of Tasmania reminds me of Joyce Carol Oates’s writing. It’s a landscape where human beings can barely survive and they have to struggle out of, but it’s always there, waiting to pull you down and back.
This is a landscape of murk and junk, dark water and black mud, trash and detritus and debris, desolate woods, rickety bridges over flowing rivers, rusty tin and barbed wire, abandoned houses and old tires.
Pages: 1 2