Oscar Bunnik’s One More Minute is a debut that reads like the fifth or sixth novel of a seasoned author—ambitious, emotionally layered, and technically impressive. It’s the kind of book that lures you in with its raw emotional stakes and keeps you hooked through structural finesse and thematic depth. If this is the author's starting point, then we are witnessing the rise of a literary force. Let’s get into the mechanics first, because that’s what I do.
The pacing in One More Minute is finely tuned, particularly impressive given the novel’s length.
Bunnik demonstrates an acute awareness of narrative rhythm—tension rises and falls in waves, just enough to give you a moment to breathe before plunging you back under. The interleaving of past and present (and occasionally something that feels like both or neither) is done with remarkable control. Chapter breaks are placed with precision. Barely did a scene feel overlong or underbaked. The use of foreshadowing is subtle but effective, allowing revelations to land with emotional and narrative weight.
The voice in this novel is a standout feature. It’s intimate yet restrained, brutal yet poetic.
There’s a gritty lyricism to the prose—sentences that occasionally stretch long enough to almost lose you before snapping back with a visceral payoff. It reminded me, in tone, of a stylistic lovechild between Cormac McCarthy and Donna Tartt: a willingness to linger in the darkness without glamorizing it, and an eye for detail that cuts deeper than most.
The dialogue is also worth praising. It's natural, character-driven, and often layered with subtext.
There were several exchanges that I reread, not because they were unclear, but because they carried emotional resonance on multiple levels. That’s hard to do, especially in a debut.
Clayton is an absolutely magnetic protagonist—Extremely hateable, yes, but fascinating nonetheless. Even when his choices grow darker or more erratic, we remain tethered to his pain. Supporting characters are similarly rich, each with their own voice and purpose. Dro,
Lena, and others aren’t simply plot tools—they feel lived in, with motivations and histories that extend beyond the edges of the page.
There’s something profound happening here beneath the surface. Time, regret, guilt, love, and self-destruction aren’t just themes—they're engraved into the structure, dialogue, and even imagery. The motif of time—particularly the “X” cuts, the ticking watch, the titular one more minute—is deployed masterfully. It's not just symbolic; it drives the emotional logic of the entire story.
As is customary, I have to point out the technical hiccups—even if they’re barely worth mentioning. Here and there, a sentence might slightly overextend itself or contain a typographical error. A comma missing, a word repeated, a line break that might be a fraction tooearly or late. These are minute issues, the kind a first-time author (and even many veteran ones) occasionally overlook. But they never break immersion. If anything, you might not notice them at all unless you’re reading with a red pen—and even then, you’d hesitate before marking anything, because the emotional weight carries so powerfully.
One More Minute is a triumph—a haunting, artful meditation on memory, consequence, and the fragility of connection. It’s technically robust, emotionally fearless, and deeply human. Bunnik doesn’t just tell a story—he engraves it into you, the way his characters mark their own bodies and memories with pain, hope, and desperate love.
If this book is anything, it’s a promise: that this author has so much more to say, and we’ll want to follow him wherever he goes next. A few minor edits could make it even sharper—but as it stands, One More Minute is already unforgettable.
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