It's been a long time since I disliked a book as much as I disliked The Death Of Bunny Munro.
Which is strange, because I love Nick Cave. I've been a fan of his music for years, and though I haven't read his first novel And The Ass Saw The Angel, why wouldn't I love his fiction too?
There's nothing wrong with Cave's prose. It is, as the reviews clearly state, striking and lyrical. The problem comes with the character of Bunny Munro himself, a sex-addicted travelling salesman who is forced to take his young son on the road with him when his wife commits suicide. Munro is a loathsome creation who views every woman he meets as a potential shag, goes far beyond the point of mentally undressing them, and yet regularly finds himself hip-deep in poontang. To call his character vaguely misogynist is to drastically misuse the word 'vaguely'.
Yes, there's a point to all this. Yes, Cave is satirising masculinity, and yes, redemption (of a kind) will eventually come Bunny's way. But it's a grubby and unpleasant journey and one that offers little in the way of humour, enlightenment or plot. And (in case you were wondering) bugger all in the way of eroticism. All this coming from someone who read and appreciated American Psycho. Maybe I'm becoming a prude in my old age, but if I read one more description of Bunny imagining the shape of a woman's vagina, I'd have thrown this book in the wood-chipper.
Sorry Nick, I think in future I'll stick with the records.
