Kevin Barry writes like he’s trying to set the page on fire. If you’ve read Night Boat to Tangier or City of Bohane, you already know the vibe. It's rhythmic. It's foul-mouthed. It's beautiful. But with his latest, The Heart in Winter, Barry has done something a bit different. He’s gone to America. Specifically, he’s gone to Butte, Montana, in 1891.
It’s freezing. It's filthy.
The book follows Tom Rourke, a dope-addicted, alcoholic songwriter who spends his days drinking "the creature" and writing letters for illiterate miners. Then he meets Polly Gillespie. She’s a new bride, married off to a devout, boring mine captain. Naturally, they fall in love. They steal a horse. They run into the wilderness during a brutal Montana winter. It’s a classic Western setup, but Barry twists it into something much more visceral and, honestly, heartbreaking.
What Makes The Heart in Winter Different?
Most Westerns feel like they were written by people who watched too many John Wayne movies. Barry isn't interested in that. He’s interested in the Irish diaspora. Butte was once known as the "Gibraltar of Labor," a place where the Irish didn't just work; they dominated.
You can smell the copper mines in this book.
The prose isn't just descriptive; it’s percussive. Barry uses a specific kind of Hiberno-English that feels out of place in the American West, yet perfectly captures the reality of the immigrants who actually built those towns. Tom Rourke isn't a hero. He's a mess. He’s coughing up black lung and looking for his next fix of laudanum. Polly isn't a damsel. She’s sharp, desperate, and probably the smartest person in any room she enters.
When they flee Butte, the book shifts. It becomes a survival story. The cold becomes a character. Barry describes the winter not just as weather, but as a physical weight that crushes the lungs.
The Language of the Copper Mines
If you’re looking for a smooth, easy read, look elsewhere. Barry’s sentences are jagged.
"The wind had a razor's edge and it was looking for a throat to cut."
That’s the kind of line that stops you. He mixes high lyricism with the coarsest slang imaginable. It’s a balancing act that shouldn't work, but it does because the emotional stakes are so high. You’re rooting for these two idiots even though you know, deep down, that a poet and a runaway bride don't have much of a chance against a Montana blizzard and a group of hired killers.
The Reality of 1890s Butte
People forget how wild Butte actually was. By 1900, it was one of the largest cities west of the Mississippi. It was a hellscape of smoke and industry. The Heart in Winter captures that transition from the wild frontier to the industrial machine.
Barry spent time in Butte researching this. He didn't just look at maps; he looked at the ghosts. The city is built on a "richest hill on earth," but the people living on it were disposable. Tom Rourke’s job—writing letters home for miners—is a real historical detail. Thousands of men lived in boarding houses, sending money back to Cork or Galway, unable to read the replies they received.
It was a lonely place.
That loneliness is the engine of the novel. Tom and Polly aren't just running toward love; they are running away from a loneliness so profound it feels like a disease.
Why the Western Genre Needed This
Let’s be real: the Western was getting a bit stale. We’ve seen the "lone gunslinger" enough. Barry gives us the "junkie songwriter." It’s much more human. The violence in The Heart in Winter isn't stylized or cool. It’s frantic and ugly. When Tom has to defend himself, he isn't a crack shot. He’s a terrified man holding a gun he barely knows how to use.
💡 You might also like: Finding a Movie in Gun Barrel City: What’s Actually Playing Near Cedar Creek Lake
The pacing is also erratic in a way that feels intentional. One moment you’re drifting through a drug-induced haze with Tom, and the next, you’re in a high-stakes chase through the mountains.
It mimics the heart rate of someone in love—or someone in withdrawal.
The Critics and the Hype
Is it his best book? Some say yes. The New York Times and The Guardian have both heaped praise on it, mostly for the way Barry handles the ending. No spoilers here, but it doesn't go where you think it will.
A lot of readers compare it to McCarthy’s Blood Meridian, but that’s not quite right. McCarthy is cosmic and nihilistic. Barry is intimate and, strangely, hopeful. Even in the dirt and the cold, there is a sense that the connection between Tom and Polly matters. It’s a "doomed romance," sure, but Barry makes you feel the warmth of the fire before he blows it out.
Honestly, the book feels like a folk song. It’s repetitive in its themes—longing, exile, the bottle—but each verse adds a new layer of grit.
Small Details That Stick
- The way Tom describes the taste of bad whiskey.
- The specific blue of the Montana sky before a storm.
- The terrifying presence of the "hired men" sent to bring Polly back.
- The sound of a banjo in a room full of dying men.
These aren't just window dressing. They are the book.
✨ Don't miss: Rio Romeo Nothing's New: Why This Song Still Hits So Hard in 2026
How to Actually Enjoy This Book
Don't rush it. This isn't a "beach read," despite being a page-turner. You need to hear the voices. If you can, try the audiobook—Barry often narrates his own work, and his West-of-Ireland lilt brings a rhythmic quality to the prose that you might miss on the page.
Also, brush up on your history of the Irish in Montana. Knowing that Butte was basically an Irish colony makes the stakes feel much higher. These people didn't just move for work; they moved to recreate a world they had lost, only to find that the new world was just as cruel as the old one.
Actionable Takeaways for Readers
If you've finished the book and are looking for what to do next, or if you're just starting, keep these points in mind:
- Read Barry’s Short Stories First: If the style feels too dense, start with his collection Dark Lies the Island. It’ll get you used to his linguistic gymnastics.
- Look Up the "Copper Kings": Understanding the real-world power struggle in Butte during the 1890s adds a massive layer of context to why Polly’s husband is so dangerous.
- Check the Maps: Looking at a topographical map of the area between Butte and the Idaho border makes Tom and Polly’s journey seem even more insane. They were crossing some of the most unforgiving terrain in North America on horseback in the dead of winter.
- Listen to 19th-Century Ballads: Tom Rourke is a songwriter. Listening to the kind of music that would have been played in Butte saloons in 1891 (like "The Lakes of Pontchartrain") sets the perfect mood.
The Heart in Winter is a brutal, gorgeous, and ultimately singular piece of fiction. It proves that Kevin Barry is one of the few writers working today who can take a tired genre and make it feel like something brand new. It’s a story about the lengths people will go to for a momentary spark of heat in a world that is permanently cold.
Go get a copy. Read it by a fire. You’re going to need the warmth.