Question about Publishing companies?
I know they have hard due dates but if needed to take off for like a year if it was really important would they let me?? (I'm trying to figure out when I should become an author.)
Congratulations, mystery fuckwit. Your prize? A solid kick up your arse, you vacucous little tit.
I know I only reviewed a book the day before yesterday, but the next one I read was only about 250 pages long. Plus, I had a hospital appointment yesterday with lots of hanging around in over-heated waiting rooms full of people with coughs, limps, growths, personality disorders, hernias, loud voices, psoriasis, obese children and suchlike, so I had plenty of reading time.
I should start by saying that Nick Cave is one of my favourite musicians, and his first novel, And The Ass Saw The Angel, is truly brilliant. Disturbing, visceral, nightmarish, gut-wrenching, horrific and full of vile people being relentlessly and sickeningly cruel, yes. But also brilliant. I would usually be vastly sceptical about a novel written by a rock star, but I don't think Nick Cave actually counts as a rock star. More like a terrifying, crazed balladeer.
The Death Of Bunny Munro is, rather like And The Ass Saw The Angel, full of pretty unpleasant people doing pretty unpleasant things. Bunny, a door-to-door cosmetics salesman and misogynist sex addict, returns home one day to find that his wife, finally driven to despair, has hanged herself, leaving Bunny to care for their nine-year-old son, Bunny Junior.
Surprisingly enough, the novel is funny. Darkly, horribly funny. Bunny is possibly the least sympathetic protagonist in anything I've ever read, jaw-droppingly vile at times, but there is a strong vein of tragicomedy, even pathos, running through the book that becomes more pronounced as things go on. Bunny Junior, who adores his father against all the odds and barely questions his decision to take him out of school and drag him off on a seedy whisky-and-wank-fuelled road trip via provincial hotels, rundown council flats and dying English seaside towns, is a brilliantly-drawn portrait of a confused and grieving little boy, and at times, the relationship between Bunny and Bunny Junior is heartbreakingly sad as the boy calmly watches his father's inevitable breakdown - a breakdown which unfolds slowly as the full extent of Bunny's misdemeanours, not to mention the degree to which his own self-image is skewed, is gradually revealed.
Did I enjoy this book? Well, it's hard to say. Probably not, in all honesty. I thought it was clever, funny and incredibly dark, but ultimately, depressing, and somewhat unfulfilling in its grubbiness. Put it this way: I wanted to have a bath when I'd finished reading. Not that this is necessarily a fault in the writing - I detest readers who only want to read about people doing predictable things and making the same moral choices that the reader would make. But I'd be hard-pushed to say I enjoyed it. It's ultimately about people with few redeeming features, and it doesn't have the same sweeping, Gothic, startlingly original nightmarish vision and sick poetry of And The Ass Saw The Angel, not by any stretch.
All in all, a mind-boggling read, but my expectations were probably far too high to live up to.
I haven't been in at all the right mental or physical state to write anything for quite a while, which bothers me. Lots and lots of ideas, though, which is something. I struggle to be remotely creative during summer. I hate the heat, I hate any sort of humidity, I hate the sun, which either burns me or brings me out in a horrible rash, I hate the fact that a single gnat in the room overnight will leave me looking and feeling like a child with chicken pox, I hate the muggy nights, I hate the hayfever. I wilt in this.
A lot of people will tell me that they're just the same. Then in the next breath they'll chirrup on about all the things they've been doing that I would never contemplate doing in summer, and I look at them, perspiration-free, lightly tanned, planning their beach holiday, and it becomes immediately obvious that they're not. I suffer much, much lower moods in summer than I do in winter. Markedly so, to the point where I even looked up Seasonal Affective Disorder to see if it only applies in winter (it doesn't, but I'm not one for trying to make excuses for / put a trendy label on / over-analyse my ailments, so I'm dismissing it as a pile of nonsense. Either way, my brain is addled to buggery and I would like it tidied up.