Last October, I shared some thoughts on Nick Cave’s novel, The Death of Bunny Munro, from the point of view of a person who’s been a Cave fan for 15+ years.
he has written a pretty good story, but 278 pages chronicling the life of a piece of human garbage gets old faster than a three minute song.
Now, as I sit here with the sun shining into my room — opposed to the choking gray of Autumn — I’m going to go ahead and revise my statement, and say that Bunny is in fact a really fantastic book, and I was too much of a pussy to admit it seven months ago.
I reread the book after a day spent listening to the 2007 album by Cave and his Bad Seeds side project, Grinderman. I loved the record so much when it came out, I burned myself out on it and had not played it in a few years. As I sat there and listened to Cave & Co. chant visceral mantras that sounded like they were written by an aging Lothario who was becoming disillusioned with age, I began to think, “this is the fucking soundtrack to Bunny!”
After that, I went and reread Zac Smith’s piece over at HTMLGiant about the book:
Book critics like Roberto Bolano because book critics look like Roberto Bolano (or his characters, or his voice, whichever): scholarly, neurotic, bibliophilic, unfairly overlooked, eager to somehow find a way to believe that literature is always only a step away from revolution and crime and violence and other more macho and less-bespectacled occupations.
Book critics do not look like Nick Cave
This all got me to thinking that I needed to give the book a second chance. I did, and now I realize that I was wrong. I’m not going to give you 1,000 more words as to why I was, I’m just going to admit that I was mistaken, and beg you not to hate me.