Something of the heart is truly broken here, which means the appetite feels intimidated and defensive. But everything feels broke as well as broken, as if it’s a story where the cheque bounced and that was all you had left. This, after all, is about the guy Nietzsche told us we could depend on, the one guy we should put our money on to stave off the emptiness and the horror. What we get instead of help is a little parenthesis of light with a hell of a lot of dark, and the feeling that there’s a whole lot more of the dark coming.
Richard Marshall reviews Eddie Campbell‘s Bacchus.