Nick Cave’s opening remarks in Faith, Hope and Carnage set a blunt tone: interviews aren’t enjoyable, and the idea of being asked questions can feel tedious. Yet the book that follows is built around more than a simple dialogue. Spurred by a quarantine-era project in 2020, Cave agreed to a yearlong series of phone conversations with Northern Irish journalist Sean O’Hagan, a longtime friend, to explore his current concerns and shape a forthcoming book. Over the course of more than forty hours of recorded material, the Australian singer-songwriter revisits four decades of music and ventures into some of the most painful episodes of his life. Topics range from loss and grief to spirituality, addiction, freedom, and the redemptive power of art. The result is a lengthy, intimate confession that was published in Spanish by Sexto Piso with Eduardo Rabasa translating the work.
The interviews consistently circle back to the central tragedy of Cave’s life: the death of his son Arthur, who fell from a cliff after taking LSD in Brighton in 2015 at the age of 15. In the foreword, O’Hagan explains being repeatedly surprised by the artist’s candor and the frank nature of his responses. At one moment Cave reflects, “It’s important to talk about this because the loss of my son defines me.”
Some passages are almost unbearably heavy. The segment recalling Arthur’s death drew widespread attention, and it marks a turning point where Cave frames his recent work as a deliberate search for confession and a way to seek forgiveness for what happened. Yet he also describes a transformation born from that tragedy, suggesting that life after the worst moment can still hold bursts of joy previously unimaginable. He says, “Since Arthur died, I have found a kind of joy that feels new, even though the pain remains.” He adds, “This is the gift Arthur left me.”
come out of the dark
Amid existential struggle and a descent into darkness, Cave and his wife Susie discover that acts of kindness from others can serve as bright beacons. The couple emerges with a strengthened belief that the world is not a lost cause, even as they recognize that they are not who they once were. Cave emphasizes a central question for anyone grieving: can you ever feel better, and how does that shift happen? He suggests that healing is possible, even if the journey leaves lasting traces of change.
With honesty, Cave also threads his exploration of faith into the narrative. His earlier fascination with religion dates back to the early days of the Birthday Party, a period marked by excess and rebellion. While his art has long drawn on spiritual questions, the recent chapters show a more literal engagement with the notion of God, and Cave argues that the belief in something sacred can enrich songwriting. He even asserts that atheism can dampen the spiritual dimension of music.
Although the conversations touch on weighty subjects, Faith, Hope and Carnage also offers vivid anecdotes about sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Cave speaks openly about his experiences with heroin and alcohol, recounting moments from rehab and the chaotic episodes that punctuated those years. He recalls notable figures he encountered along the way and reflects on how those experiences shaped his life and work.
The memoir delves into the craft of making music—how songwriting can feel like a rigorous, sometimes brutal process—and offers portraits of the bands Cave has led. He notes the intense dynamics of the Bad Seeds, describing the creative environment as volatile and unprecedented, with moments of sharp humor as well as deep frustration. A memorable line from Blixa Bargeld, left the band abruptly, captures the raw honesty of these memories.
Even in lighter recollections, there’s a persistent thread of melancholy. O’Hagan frames Cave’s voice as acutely aware of life’s fragility, an awareness that runs through the entire book. Across the year of conversations, the artist endured personal losses that touched his circle deeply, including the passing of his mother and close collaborators. The narrative closes on Cave’s acceptance that hope often arrives with a broken heart, a paradox that mirrors the cadence of his life and art.