Although Nick Cave’s second novel makes strong claim to the musician’s skills as a writer, in the end it is too morally opaque to succeed as a work of sustained fiction. There is an overwhelming didacticism to The Death of Bunny Munro that delights too much in its own surety to be persuasive, and leads to a disappointing suspicion that, despite Cave’s renown as a populist intellectual, there is little in the book to consider besides the sexual conscience of its titular protagonist. Bunny Munro is certainly entertaining, and his exploits memorable, if puerile, but the final authorial judgement of the character is predictable, and, worse, leaves little room for readers’ thoughts. Exactly what Munro’s version of family life undone by libidinous desire contributes – even when told with remarkable lyricism – remains moot in the novel.