The Death of Bunny Munro. Nick Cave 2009

uma leitura que choca sem ser chocante. uma escrita torturada ou o simplificar de uma mente obscura que é ao mesmo tempo brilhante. como poucas. ele já o tinha demonstrado nas letras das suas músicas e tem agora todo o tempo do mundo para demonstrá-lo nos seus livros. é escuro, é obscuro e tem tudo aquilo que ninguém ousa dizer, escrever ou sequer lembrar-se de pensar. alucinante, pérfido, depravado. e porque não? porque não explorar os mais vergonhosos limites do ser humano, ou daquilo que se deve ou não pensar e fazer, como se nada fosse senão o mais normal do mundo? pelo menos para as 176 páginas de bunny munro.

Bunny manoeuvres the Punto through the weekend trafficand emerges onto the seafront, and with a near swoon Bunny sees it – the delirious burlesque of summertime unfolding before him. Groups of scissor-legged school-things with their pierced midriffs, logoed jogging girls, happy, rumpy dog-walkers,couples actually copulating on the summer lawns, beachedpussy prostrate beneath the erotically shaped cumulus,loads of fucking girls who were up for it – big ones, littleones, black ones, white ones, young ones, old ones, give-me-a-minute-and-I’ll-find-your-beauty-spot ones, yummy single mothers, the bright joyful breasts of waxed bikinibabes, the pebble-stippled backsides of women fresh fromthe beach – the whole thing fucking immense, man, thinks Bunny – blondes, brunettes and green-eyed redheads that you just got to love, and Bunny slows the Punto to a crawl and rolls down the window.

(...) 

He finds himself going weak at the knees and he rolls hishead back and looks at the ceiling. He notices a whiteclump of perforated mud in the upper corner of the toiletblock, the size and shape of a human heart. In time, Bunny realises he is looking at a wasps’ nest and that it is aliveand humming with malign industry. The wasps are preparing themselves – he thinks. He remembers the burning West Pier and his blood runs cold and he thinks –the starlings are circling. He closes his eyes and imagines for a split second a rush of perilous and apocalyptic visions – planes falling from the sky; a cow giving birth to a snake; red snow; an avalanche of iron maidens; a vagina with its mouth stapled shut; a phallus shaped like a mushroom cloud – and Bunny shudders, checks his teeth in the mirror and thinks – Man, where did that come from?

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