The Death of Bunny Munro was a tough read.
Perhaps it was the fact that I was reading this simultaneously with Bukowski's Post Office, but reading something that made me feel like an unforgivable bastard just for being equipped with male genitalia is not the most appealing proposition. The titular character is loathsome. He is controlled by his id, chasing tail recklessly (and often reprehensibly) across the pages of the novel. Surviving his wife (whose suicide can largely be pinned on his wanton skirt-chasing ways), he brings his son along on the road with him while he makes cosmetics sales calls. He unravels, but the voyage is simply tiresome.
Upon finishing the book, the only feeling left is relief at not having to read any further, which is sad because Cave has such a penchant for writing compelling music leaving you wanting more.