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Rating: A book that begins with "I am finished" is already applause-worthy. But in this case, it would be like clapping at a funeral. Beautiful strength, you might say, considering a book title like that, but the matter is far more complex than it seems. As complex as the twisted, and crooked, psyche of the Ink King, who paints on a gray canvas a story with shades of sperm and fog, skillfully mixed in a pewter inkwell.
Good old Bunny is an absolutely absurd character because he is so real, so real that almost every man could more or less clearly mirror himself, chained as he is to his (anti)vital obsessions, his pornographic fixations, his injustice. He is a "Mr. Dickhead," and he is latently aware of his mistakes, he is a genetic traitor by nature, and thus powerless (wordplay?) in front of his erections. The countdown to the end that our antihero (a very fitting term) considers is another total psychopath dressed as a devil wandering around England skewering women, somewhat like Bunny does but with much less blood, and the closer they both get to the eye of the storm, the sense of ending becomes oppressive, it's like being caught in a vise with no way out, being aware of it and not wanting to do anything about it. We could close the book, but at a certain point, it becomes impossible; the words are images, the words are a pitch-black music from the veins of a postmortem pop. We are magnetically drawn into the voracious mouth of violent sex, the magnet placed on the tip of Mr. Munro's dick, and by then we are already beautifully screwed since a while. His life changes immediately. Because the point is, he is married, and his wife is scared. So scared that she decides to hang from a ceiling. And from there, the gates of hell are open; a one-way street unfolds. It becomes an on-the-road at breakneck speed down the Mount of Venus, where Bunny will be his own Charon, in the company of his son (and a suitcase full of face products), who will helplessly watch his father transform into a spectral flesh and bone, he will see him wallow in the house of mud and semen he created with his own hands, aboard his yellow Punto, among the obsessive ghosts of Avril Lavigne and Kylie Minogue, who ignite the darkest libido, of a pussy (or many pussies) that devours the soul and consumes, the sexual golem gradually crumbles, but it's a journey toward a redemption that reeks of dirt, that reeks of incompleteness.
But everything has a limit, you just need to understand what it is. And if you don't understand it, you're finished.
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