While it’s not top-tier Abe in my opinion, The Ruined Map is not without its merits. Any subversion of the detective genre is going to win me over at least to some degree. And subvert Abe does, though here almost to a fault. The plot—such as it is—ostensibly follows the efforts of the narrator, a private investigator, to locate the missing husband of his client, a rather eccentric, reticent young woman now living alone and cloistered in her apartment within a vast housing estate. To say the 'plot' gets bogged down in the narrator’s own existential meanderings would be an understatement. At the heart of his circuitous and often banal movements, he is really just investigating himself, as he eventually admits:

n  This blackness I am seeking is after all merely my own self…my own map, revealed by my brain.n

This admission should come as no surprise to the reader. The themes at play here are pretty standard fare for Abe: identity, isolation, alienation, otherness, and escape. (Not that I'm complaining.) Usually there’s some awkward eroticism thrown in for good measure, and that is certainly the case here. Some of the prose is just over-the-top ridiculous:

n  The color of her skin was that of a mellowed piece of unpainted furniture in which age and freshness smoothly fused.n

Really, Abe? Sometimes I’m tempted to pin this sort of absurdity on the translation, but E. Dale Saunders has translated a lot of Abe’s work and I’ve never had any complaints about his translations before. So, I suspect this might just be Abe being Abe. Toward the end, the narrative (d)evolves(?) into a sort of denouement to what Abe has been dancing around with from the beginning of the book.* I won’t say anymore because readers who make it all the way through to the end deserve discovering for themselves the final specimen laid out for dissection.

*Note: there is a connection between this novel and Abe's short story 'Beyond the Curve' that reveals itself toward the end of the book, but although I've read the story, unfortunately I didn't have it on hand for a reread and close comparison.

A whole lot of nothing. This book was either butchered by the person who translated it, or (the reason i suspect) it is just a boring book.

3 yawn per page kinda book

Can't wait for my second read-through circa 2025, finally getting everything.

kafka meets hard-boiled noir, how can you go wrong? I am a fan of the films based on Abe's books, especially Woman in the Dunes, but this is his first novel that I read.

the writing style is more than a bit strange, and I'm not sure how much of it is Abe, vs the translation. Take sentences like "The curtain rose, in this dimly lit vestibule, on my somber functions." - clumsy wordings like this are common, but they can turn out oddly poetic.

the book itself is a blast. The feverish, nonlinear, idiosyncratic themes that, again, bring to my mind Kafka and the best noirs, are all over the place. Now I have to see the movie.

Devamlı kendini sarmal bir şekilde tekrar eden bir labirent içinde ilerler gibi okudum.

Daha öncesinde kumların kadını kitabını okuyan ben iki kitabın kaynaşmasını o kadar çok istedim ki .

Bu viran harita eklenen ve çıkan her karakterle daha karmaşık ve kullanılmaz hale geliyor . Kaybolan kim orası da yoruma açık .

Bu kitabı keşke Murakami yazsa dedim . Bu da benim fazla "batı edebiyatı " kafasına girmiş olmamdan da kaynaklı olabilir.

Han Kang ile Murakami arasında bir yere de koydum yazarı bu kitapta nedense .

‘Sabahları konserve gibi dolu trenlerde sıkış tıkış giderken bazen öyle korkuyorum ki. Normalde sırf, belki birkaç, belki onlarca, belki yüzlerce kişiyle ilişkimiz var diye bu dünyada belli bir yerimiz var sanıyoruz. Oysa çok daha yakınımda etrafımı konserve kutusu gibi saran tüm bu insanlar yabancı. Hem de bu yabancıların sayısı çok daha fazla.’
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Kobo Abe beni her defasında sisli bir ormanın ortasında bırakıyor. Başlangıçta ellerimi tutuyor, yol gösteriyor. Ve sonra diyor ki ‘artık yalnızsın’ ve ben kayboluyorum.
Bu sefer elime bir harita veriyor: Hiroshi Nemuro kayıp.
Ben o ormandan çıkıp; ucu bucağı yok gibi görünen bir yerde onu arıyorum. Şaşırmamalıyım aslında, çünkü “şehir-kapalı bir sonsuzluk”..
Toprağı kazmak gibi.
Kazdıkça içinden ne çıkacağını bilemeyip; o çukura düşme pahasına merakına yenilmek gibi..
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İçimizdeki kuytuları anlatıyor Kobo Abe. Gizliden gizliye kaçış isteğimizi, söylemekten korktuğumuz düşleri..
Ve göz kamaştıran nokta ise hepimizin birbirimizle bir bağ kurduğunu göstermesi..
Yola çıkan da, yolda olan da, hatta yolu düşleyen de bu bağın içinde..
Yine çok sevdim..
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Çeviride Kumların Kadını ve Başkasının Yüzü’nde de yer alan Barış Bayıksel yer almakta..Umarım nice kitapla kesişir yollarımız..
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Sancar Salman’a ait kapak tasarımı ise büyüleyici. O katlanma izleri, içinizdeki yollar.. Parsel parsel ayrılış..
Nihayetinde et kemiğe bürünüş..

"But supposing, as with the town on the plateau, every face which I should know were to change into unknown strangers, what then?"

Murakami likes jazz; Murakami likes Kobo Abe. Kobo Abe is Murakami played by a hard bop musician on heroin. While I often need to be patient and be willing to feel lost awhile when reading an Abe novel, it always pays off in the impressionistic emotion and atmosphere he is able to deliver, and the Ruined Map was no different. A hard boiled noir detective story where the detective learns less and less about the case as he goes on, the form cleverly makes use of this subversion of genre to explore issues of disorientation and the tenuousness of identity. Weird as hell, though it may not seem so because of Abe's masterful imitation of the detective story. Also deals with many themes Abe (and Murakami for that matter) seem to be preoccupied with: vanishing spouses, substitutions, getting lost in a dream labyrinth.

It takes patience, but Abe gets you there. I admire him very much for his willingness to take risks that don't always pay off (but often do!), his willingness to be messy, and his uncanny ability to sneak up and sock you in the gut just when you thought you had no idea what he was trying to get at.

Also, for the record, E. Dale Saunders is a kickass translator.

All I can really say after reading any Kobo Abe book is........huh?

İstemsizcesine gülümsüyorum ey storytel neden bu kitabı polisiye kategorisine ekleyip salt polisiye okumak isteyenleri mahvettin


Gelelim bana Kobo Abe okumaları yapmaya devam ederken virane harita ile başladım. Öncelikle Kobo Abe evreni diye tanımlayabileceğim evrenle karşılaşınca artık şaşırmıyorum. Olay aslında basit kayıp bir adam onu arayan karısı, karısının abisi ve dedektifimiz ama işte Kobo Abe o kadar basit bir adam değil!!!! Kitap boyunca hamamböceği yiyen adamlar,yakuzalar,evlenecek olan fahişeler, yalan söyleme hastalığından muzdarip olan nevrozlu adam,tamamen farklı farklı kadın manzaları ve rahatsız eden KAYBOLMA DÜRTÜSÜ...

Kitabı dinlerken /okurken (ben Gürsü Gür sesiyle dinledim) net bu hissi buram buram hissediyorsunuz kaç kez kendinize bu hayattan kaybolsak demedik ki... işte Kobo Abe muhteşem kalemiyle KAYBOLANLARIN ve ONU ARAYANLARIN psikolojisini yani kısaca o hisleri size hissettiriyor kesinlikle tavsiye ederim.

Leer literatura japonesa, sea del período que sea, requiere un trabajo mental que muchas veces resulta agotador (y no pocas veces frustrante). Esto ocurre porque son muchos los autores y varias las obras en las que resulta imposible comprender qué ocurre o por qué. Ciertamente, el mundo de las letras japonesas puede resultar un misterio, quizá por las diferencias culturales con los lectores occidentales, ya sea por la forma en que muchos autores han tomado a los grandes literatos occidentales y los han trasladado a su propio país. “Discípulo” de Beckett y con elementos claramente kafkianos, Kobo Abe demostró ser uno de los más grandes escritores japoneses de todos los tiempos y eso es posible contemplarlo en las páginas de El mapa calcinado (1967), donde seguimos el descenso hacia la locura de un narrador anónimo. Al mismo tiempo que, más que ser espectadores, Abe nos hace protagonistas de la angustiante tortura mental a la que nos somete la mente de este narrador.

El argumento de El mapa calcinado es, a simple vista, muy simple: un detective, el narrador, es contratado por una mujer para ubicar al señor Nemuro, su marido, quien lleva desaparecido más de seis meses. El narrador intentará llevar adelante una investigación con pocas pruebas y con personajes que no parecen tener muchas intenciones de cooperar: el cuñado del desaparecido, sus jefes y hasta la misma esposa del señor Nemuro. Todos y cada uno mienten, esconden y se contradicen; ocultan pruebas o restan importancia a otras. Todos estos elementos crean una sensación de absurdo, donde muchas veces resulta patético tratar de entender los motivos por el cual parecen tan poco dispuestos a ayudar al detective.

No obstante esto, la novela es más que un policial genérico. A riesgo de arruinar el final, diremos que la trama policial es simplemente una excusa para llevar adelante la verdadera intención del autor y, quizá, dar cuenta de su maestría. El detective, mientras intenta obtener alguna pista, va reflexionando y elaborando hipótesis sobre qué pudo sucederle a Nemuro, se obsesiona con un número de teléfono y con una mafia de gigolós liderados por el mismo cuñado del desaparecido. Todas estas obsesiones e invenciones no son más que callejones oscuros que se van extendiendo y entrelazando hasta perder complemente el sentido. El detective empieza a confundir la realidad con sus propias invenciones.

Imaginar conspiraciones entre la esposa y el cuñado; ver una asociación entre el bar Tsubaki y una red de taxis ilegales. La trama policial se desdibuja pronto y comienza una cuestión introspectiva que resulta tortuosa de seguir. Y esto es adrede, ya que Kobo Abe, además de ser un escritor genial, era un hábil torturador psicológico. Aunque por momentos la novela se vuelve innecesariamente densa, los momentos de introspección, donde la realidad y la mentira se vuelven uno, están escritos de forma magistral. Son momentos donde uno parece estar siempre yendo cuesta arriba en una colina que se alarga y alarga infinitamente. El drama de la existencia se vuelve cada vez más angustiante. El detective reflexiona, pero no se puede asegurar que exista realmente. Se pone en duda quién era el señor Nemuro y esa duda se entremezcla con las que se generan sobre el propio narrador. No es simplemente la duda cartesiana, es la propia construcción de la imagen japonesa en una sociedad que se moderniza a pasos agigantados.

Como en El proceso de Kafka, el caso de la desaparición del señor Nemuro no parece tener solución. Aquí radican muchos de los temas que interesaban a Abe: la locura, la alienación de las personas en medio de una sociedad cada vez más aislada de sus tradiciones y de los demás. Todos los personajes aparecen solitarios, perdidos en sus propios laberintos, intentando descifrar quiénes son y por qué actúan como actúan. Esto, Kobo Abe lo hace con una precisión fría y un objetivismo brutal y sin ningún tipo de atenuación. No elude la realidad, no le escapa. El narrador está perdido, sin un mapa que le ayude a saber para dónde ir ni qué ruta seguir.

Not mysterious just confusing, has some good moments but in the end it’s unsatisfying and doesn’t commit to the story …

I read Kobo Abe's "The Ruined Map" in Russian translation, so some of my comments below may or may not find relevance in any English translations.

Something intrinsic to Kobe Abe's writing is a deep-rooted undercurrent of psychological weight that seems to hang on for an indefinite time after finishing any of his works. Having read this a little over a year ago, I can still recall fairly easily the discomfort and a sort of quiet anxiety when reading "The Ruined Map".

I noticed that a few readers remark that this work felt boring. To a certain extent I agree because it touches on, or rather uses, the mundane as a vessel for this small cluster of characters. There is both a claustrophobic quality to the strange paradox of their limited development and the intimacy with which they are explored. The most overpowering character is the city itself with its surreal, disorienting, unnatural and vague qualities. The ending felt appropriately memorable, insidious and deeply reflective.