Summary:
Twenty years after the publication of his first novel, And the Ass Saw the Angel, Nick Cave brings us the final days of Bunny Munro, a salesman in search of a soul. Set adrift by his wife’s suicide and struggling to keep some sort of grasp on reality, Bunny Munro drives off in his yellow Fiat Punto, Bunny Jr. in tow. To his son, waiting patiently in the car while he peddles beauty wares and quickies to lonely housewives in the south of England, Bunny is a hero, larger than life. But Bunny himself seems to have only a dim awareness of his son’s existence, viewing his needs as a distraction from the relentless pursuit of sex, alcohol, and drugs. When his bizarre road trip shades into a final reckoning, Bunny realizes that the revenants of his world—decrepit fathers, vengeful ghosts, jealous husbands, and horned psycho-killers—lurk in the shadows, waiting to exact their toll. At turns dark and humane—and with all the mystery and enigma fans will recognize as Cave’s singular vision—The Death of Bunny Munro questions the nature of sin and redemption, and lays bare the imprints that fathers leave on their sons.
Thoughts:
“Oh, Bunny … you fucking liar …” His wife’s last words to him, and a perfect summary of this book.
Nick Cave has written a truly twisted tale that manages to make the reader squirm and cringe, maybe even get a little sick to the stomach, yet unable to put the book down throughout.
Bunny Munro is a singular-minded, deeply flawed character, and this is made quite clear to the reader from the start. I kept expecting the book to turn into a story of redemption long before it actually did simply because of how fast Bunny and his son began falling. As I read I repeatedly found myself thinking it couldn’t possibly get any worse. But, oh no, it does. The redemption portion is reserved only for the last few pages.
The manner in which Bunny and his son’s situation keeps speeding downhill is very well-paced. Events and insight are placed at just the right moments, further revealing aspects of the characters and story. As the book progresses, so does the reader’s understanding of just how disturbed the title character is. The depths of his depravity continue to reveal themselves right up to the belated climax.
A few aspects of the writing style did annoy me though. The author overuses the phrase “or something,” placing it at the end of every thought his characters have that could be construed as even remotely insightful or certain. Along with that, we have an overuse of the word “and,” used to join separate actions or thoughts, often unrelated, into big, awkward, paragraph-length sentences. These quirks were most likely meant to emphasize the lost and disorganized feeling of the characters and their state of mind, but the story does a fine job of that on it’s own. Being beaten over the head with syntax and grammar to boot just felt unnecessary.
The writing may have came off as a bit mechanical and simplistic at times, but it did little to detract from the story and its moral. Overall, The Death of Bunny Munro is quick and easy, and seriously fucked-up. If nothing else, one thing’s for sure: after reading it, you won’t be able to look at Kylie Minogue, Avril Lavigne, or Big Macs the same way ever again.
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