Larry Brown never met a bad decision he couldn’t make sing. And I love him for it. The Rabbit Factory is him widening the lens, less the tight, bruised focus of Joe or Dirty Work and more a big, messy human pinball machine where lust, loneliness, money, and dumb luck keep ricocheting people into one another in Memphis and North Mississippi. It’s built with that “everybody’s connected, whether they like it or not” sprawl; reviewers have compared the structure to Altman’s Nashville, and it fits Brown surprisingly well. 
What I love most is how Brown can turn a scene from ridiculous to violent to oddly tender without warning. It’s tragic-absurd, raunchy, and dead-on about the way folks will call it love when it’s really just hunger with a pulse. The cast is a parade of the broken and the bold: an older rich man who can’t relax inside his own life, a younger wife clawing at satisfaction, a runaway kid, a big-hearted prostitute who storms through the book like bad weather, plus gangsters, academics, and cops who all feel like they’ve been marinating in the same humid air and bad bourbon. 
And yes, this one is funny. Not sitcom funny. More like “I just laughed and immediately looked around to make sure nobody saw me laugh at that” funny. Brown’s humor comes from pure human malfunction: the self-serious lies people tell, the small-town macho posturing, the bedroom calculus, the accidental humiliations. Even the title has bite: one review points out it comes from a literal rabbit-breeding setup, but it also winks at how compulsively these characters mate when what they actually need is to learn how to love. 
So why four stars, not five? Because for all its energy, the sprawl can occasionally feel like it’s daring you to keep up, like Brown is juggling one more storyline than the ceiling fan can tolerate. And while the book’s range is part of the point, the sheer busyness sometimes mutes the clean, devastating punch he lands in a tighter novel.
If I’m comparing it to another Brown, I keep coming back to Fay. Fay is leaner, sharper, and (to my taste) more emotionally inevitable, Kirkus even flat-out says it remains his best, while The Rabbit Factory is Brown cutting loose, extending his range, letting the neighborhood in. I’m glad he did. It’s a rowdy book with a warm engine underneath it, full of missed chances and the thin, weird threads that still manage to tie people together.
In short: Larry Brown doing what he does best; showing how ordinary folks turn their lives into a demolition derby, except this time he lets us laugh on the way to the wreck. Now on to therapy.