This was... bizarre. If the concept of a man walking around with a cardboard box covering most of his body isn't strange enough, then rest assured: that's only the beginning of whatever The Box Man is. It deconstructs first society and then itself, turning on its head the concept at its core for a playful experiment with narrative identity and conventions. Multiple times, it abandons its own story in favor of seemingly random anecdotes and newspaper articles, and characters themselves take on the role of author, shaping the direction of the book and discussing events which have yet to happen. I'm not entirely sure what the point was—something about seeing vs. being seen, privacy vs. nudity—but Abe had me hooked from beginning to end.

The Box Man is an absolutely stunning and disorienting classic of weird fiction. In only 178 pages, it manages to provide a full panorama of identity and body dysmorphia, as well as providing crucial insights on love, lust, truth, observation (and how it shapes or changes experience) and more. The Box Man is utterly despondent in tone as it tears through humanity's natural longing toward perfect anonymity. It is prophetic in its application to our modern social media-driven culture; our current epidemic of voyeurism. More than ever before, we are observing and judging with the ability to turn off being observed or judged. We are even incentivized and rewarded for doing so, and the results have been appositely despondent so far. There are parallels in particular to the anonymity of homelessness, or other forfeitures of humanness that occurs either willingly or unwillingly, and the analysis of whether or not this is a positive thing or not (to liberate oneself from societal obligations). The Box Man examines the very essence of truth as it differs, or doesn't, from belief. It is a tale that lends itself to a variety of interpretations.

"In seeing there is love, in being seen there is abhorrence. One grins, trying to bear the pain of being seen."

поставила собі за ціль читати більше японської літератури і одразу ж почала із Кобо Абе, до якого не могла підступитися вже декілька років, а дарма. бо "Людина-коробка" - це щось ідеально кафкіанське, ідеально екзистенційне.

маленька за розміром і водночас велика за сенсом книга. коли Сізіф Камю знаходить сенс у підйомі каменю на гору, людина-коробка Кобо Але повністю губиться у світі, і відчувши свою відчуженість, замикається в коробці, а потім, зрештою, губиться й у ній. намагаючись віднайти власну особистість, людина-коробка блукає доріжками власного Я, які заводять її глибше й глибше, відчуття реальності повністю втрачається і лабіринти свідомості стають темнішими й страшнішими.

/Зовні коробка — простий предмет, звичайний прямокутний парале­лепіпед, але це справжній лабіринт, з'єднаний сотнею логічних кілець.
Що відчайдушніше борсаєшся в них, то швидше коробка обертається на ще одну твою епідерму, а в лабіринті з'являються нові ходи й вузли нових схрещень./

можливо, цим твором Кобо Абе заповідав: аби збагнути й мати повне уявлення про власну особистість, індивідуальність, ідентичність, варто пускатися у найбезнадійніші подорожі вглиб себе, навіть якщо повернутися із них немає надії.

Az bir demlensin elbet bir şeyler diyeceğim üzerine. Böyle bir çeviri harikası sus pus bitirilemez.

اتمسفری شبیه به زن در ریگ روان ، اما با زاویه دید و روایتی متفاوت

ظاهراً ترجمه ی مرضیه طرلانی نسخه ی ناقص تر و سانسور شده ترِ کتاب در ایران است ؛ پس ترجمه ی فردین توسلیان گمانم بهتر باشد

Christopher 'Alexander Supertramp' McCandless cut up all his cards, destroyed his passport, set fire to money, and went on an all American epic road trip in search of himself; in search of a great freedom. The box man likewise destroyed his own identity papers, but took to a cardboard box in search of losing himself; in search of naked ladies to spy on.

It was difficult not to read Abe's The Woman in the Dunes and not think of Kafka. Here, the Kafkaesque vibes are still evident, but this was more like a mash-up of Samuel Beckett and the Nouveau Roman master Alain Robbe-Grillet. Most of the time we are inside the box; inside the anonymity condition, with the narrative made up of hypothetical voices and events, where things for our box man may or may not have happened.

How can a simple cardboard box be also like living in a labyrinth?
Does the box man have a schizo of multiple identities?
Is he on a quest to have no identity at all?
Did a murder occur?

Emotionless as the novel was, with more questions than answers, I do like voyeuristic narratives, so a good chance I was always going to like this. Here though, it's not peeping from behind the blinds or spying through binoculars. It's...er...a box. With a nice little observation window, and even a vinyl curtain and a plastic shutter for when it rains. I almost wanted to experience the box man life myself. Put it this way, if the box man life is Tokyo's version of skid row, then I know where I'd rather be.

An absurd and creepy, eccentric and engaging, wholly original and clever piece of Japanese lit. For me, it's even better than The Woman in the Dunes.

I am a longtime admirer of Abe's "Woman in the Dunes" and decided it is time to read another of his novels. This is a much more difficult read. Somehow I suspect a second reading would result in one or two more stars. I now seem to have reached an age where my mind requires at least two readings to deal with works as dream-like (or maybe we should say "nightmarish") and narratively complex as this one. "The Box Man" strikes me as a meditation on the terror of being seen--voyeurism as more natural than exhibitionism (or at least it was before the era of the selfie dawned a few years back). We all view ourselves as quite ugly, Abe says, and hence really don't want to be looked at. Many of us just presume that when anyone is looking at us it is with disapproval. Such is the appeal of wearing a box, seeing a world through a slit without being seen oneself. But just who was in the box in this novel and how "a real box man" is to be distinguished from "a fake box man" is a question I can't answer, though much was predicated on this distinction in the novel. But, gee, before I go back to a second read, I do need a little lighter fare.

There is no denying the allure of the cardboard box as a protective carapace. Children know this inherently. It's why they are always building forts out of boxes. When I was a kid, my dad repurposed the same cardboard box several years in a row to make Halloween costumes for me and my siblings. I was a robot one year and a turtle the next. Before that my sister had been a dog. All using the same box! The box fit snug over my body, hanging down to my hips, much like that of the box man in this book. It felt safe and comfortable in the box, despite the severe reduction in peripheral vision it caused.

This novel is a mystery of sorts. Part of the mystery is how many box men there really are. Or rather, how many authentic box men. For there is at least one false box man. He wears a box that is identical to the real box man, and it's set up in a nearly identical manner. But why pose as a box man, particularly when box men are considered to be the detritus of society. Perhaps to win over the affection of a certain nurse. And yet the nurse wants the real box man to ditch his box, and is even willing to pay him to do it. So her attitude towards boxes as coverings for men remains in question.

Another part of the mystery is how does one identify a true box man. What constitutes authenticity in this case. At times the real box man interprets the false box man as simply another version of himself. Both the false box man (coincidentally or not, also a false doctor) and the nurse may not truly exist. The box man is recording his story—the book is a collection of personal notes on his life as a box man. He appears to suffer from an identity crisis, perhaps brought on by his life inside the box. He is reluctant to leave the box, though at one time he lived a 'normal' unboxed life, working as a photographer. This is significant, his being a former photographer, for the best photographer is invisible. The box man is obsessed with appearances and with looking. He does not want to be looked at, but he wants to be able to look at others. Hence the box.

Later in the book we find out more about the false doctor (and false box man) through his written affidavit, which also sheds light on certain previously related events. We are also presented, through case reports, with further insights into what may have made the box man who he is today, e.g., what ultimately drove him into the box. But none of this coheres into a stable narrative.

The book includes photographs of at best peripheral relevance, accompanied by cryptic captions, which enhance the mysterious nature of the text. For despite the attempts at organization in the form of case reports and affidavits, what the text engenders most effectively is perpetual disruptions in perception through disorientation. As we draw near to an understanding, the ground shifts and again we are stumbling in confusion. Much like it feels to wander around, as I once did so many Halloweens ago, with a box covering the upper part of one's body.

n  From the human chrysalis that is the box man,
Even I know not
What kind of living being will issue forth.n

مرد جعبه ای
از ادبیات ژاپن
راوی مردی است درون جعبه .
اول از همه میگه چطور جعبه رو بسازیم و به نظرم شروع خوبی نبود و حوصله ی آدم سر می رفت . جزئیاتی رو می گفت که به نظرم لازم نبود و هیچ کمکی به شناخت شخصیت یا روند داستان نمی کرد و از نظر من حتی این توصیف ها طوری نبودن که بشه به خوبی موقعیت مرد جعبه ای رو تصور کرد .
این مرد از درون جعبه می نویسد و واقعیت و توهم  باهم ترکیب شدن و  تفکیک این ها خیلی سخت بود  .
از دنیای دور و اطرافش حرف میزنه ، از مردم
و با اینکه اصلا طرح داستانی منسجمی نداشت و همش موضوع عوض میشد  ولی انگار جدا از هم نبودن و میتونستی داستان رو درک کنی.

(در دیدن عشق وجود دارد و در دیده شدن نفرت)

• راجع به ترجمه:
من اول با ترجمه نشر خوب یا همون ترجمه خانم طرلانی خوندم توی فیدیبو . بعد متوجه شدم یه ترجمه دیگه هم هست از فردین توسلیان به اسم آدم جعبه ای و یه بخش هایی رو هم از اون ترجمه خوندم و به نظرم ترجمه کامل تری هستش و حتی چند تا عکس هم بود توی این ترجمه.

A “box man”, the narrator tells us, is not someone just sleeping outdoors on sheets of cardboard as many homeless people do, or in a full cardboard box as some do. A box man lives in his box, wears it all the time, even walks around in it during the day like a hermit crab. In fact, as a box man himself he stresses that he’s not only distinct from all other street people, but is treated with contempt by them. As for the box itself, on Page 4 we’re given a detailed set of do-it-yourself instructions for making one: corrugated cardboard is preferable, the kind that has shiny waterproofing on the outside, and big enough to cover you down to the top of your legs—the sort of box a fridge, say, might be delivered to your door in. You cut an observation window at eye-level, with semi-opaque vinyl screens which can be opened a chink like curtains; on the inside are wire hooks for hanging your few possessions…a small shelf…a plastic board for writing…
    And if all this is starting to sound a bit, well, strange, it’s much more than that.
    I’ve done my best to find out whether any of it is true—did people ever really walk around in such a box; was it a phenomenon seen for a time on the streets of central Tokyo in the early 1970s? To date I’ve found no hint of it at all in real life, which leaves it as a detailed and downright peculiar piece of imagining wholly typical of Kōbō Abe (and why I like his books).
    So what does he do with the idea? For a start, the format here is complicated: the main narrative (written by our box man) is interspersed with sections supposedly written by “A”, a second box man. There are what read like case notes, psychiatric ones perhaps; also a legal “affidavit”, newspaper clippings and odd, seemingly random, photographs. And if that sounds like a mess, it’s anything but—it’s meticulously put together and there are clues throughout: for instance, it turns out that before becoming a box man the narrator had been a photographer, and those weird photographs aren’t random at all.
    Overall I’d summarise it this way: The Box Man is about hiding, then watching other people; it’s about voyeurism—and you could probably see it as a metaphor as well: creating a false outer persona, like a mask, from behind which we inspect other people we pass on the street. But it’s also a murder-mystery. Running through it is the question of how many box men there actually are: many, two—or just one? Was there only ever one “box man”, a lone nut who chose to live this way (which is why he’s so despised by the other local street-dwellers who know perfectly well what he’s up to)? If so, then our narrator isn’t only “unreliable” (because there are some glaring inconsistencies between the differing accounts of what happened); what we’re seeing here is a completely unhinged mind, from the inside.
    Late in life Kōbō Abe was being talked about as a possible Nobel candidate, and I’m beginning to understand why. This is a deeply strange, an exceptionally peculiar, work of genius.

Została mi polecona w księgarni, kiedy powiedziałam, że chce coś mrocznego i dziwnego…i właśnie to dostałam!

> What, Exactly, Makes a Novel Memorable?

"Memorable" and "unforgettable" are ubiquitous, often meaningless clichés of reviewing.
But they are also interesting criteria of value. Here at least, "memorable" means prone to uncontrolled, uncategorizable narrative misbehavior.

"Box men" are homeless men who walk around inside cardboard boxes. The boxes are fitted out with viewing portholes, little shelves, hooks, and supplies.

The descriptions of the box are vivid, so precise and unexpected, so that it seems they could only be the result of actually building such a box and living in it. Abe is extremely precise about what goes into the box—what the box man carries around with him—and how such a box is constructed. I would expect that from any realist or surrealist novel; but the details are inserted into unexpected places in the narrative, where they would only occur to someone who has actually spent time in such a box. The stains on the inside of the box, the uses of a small shelf under the observation window, the purposes of a plastic tablet—they outdo Nabokov in their myopic realism, and they produce, for me, a creeping sense that Abe did more than just imagine his subject. I haven't looked into this, but it wouldn't surprise me if there were such things as "box men" in 1970s Japan, and if Abe wasn't one himself. And since "box men" are sociopaths and voyeurs, that's a kind of narrative unreliability that goes well beyond what a reader might infer about the author of Lolita.

(In 2022, a student in a seminar reconstructed a box according to Abe's instructions. We took turns walking around the city in it. I no longer have any doubt Abe did the same. The box was simultaneously empowering, because you can't see the person inside, and embarrassing, because it was about as long as a miniskirt. I used it to stop traffic in downtown Chicago, and I tried walking into a bank lobby.)

The story turns around a "box man," another person who may want to become a "box man," and a nurse they both like. The other man is explicitly a Doppelgaenger and projection of the narrator, so in terms of men's roles, the book is about the nakedness of walking around in public without a box, the temptations of the box's security, and the odd feeling of slipping out of society and living in, and as, a box. In terms of women's roles, the book is substantially more bleak. The nurse only exists in the story to take off her clothes and pose. She is watched by the "box man," once from outside a window, and later from inside a hospital room. The narrator fantasizes about cutting her up and eating her, but that's just a passing thought. Mostly he is stricken with embarrassment about his own body, and the sum total of his idea of relations with women is watching them undress. It's an openly childish, masturbatory fantasy. Over the course of the book, the effect of that relentless, unreflective, supposedly natural way of representing relations is increasingly unpleasant. When he wrote this book, Abe's imaginative universe was so shriveled and poisoned that he could only imagine women as things that are peered at from inside cardboard boxes. I have no problem with violent, misanthropic, deranged or psychotic narratives or narrators, but this one is also unreflective.

The narrative is quirky to the point of opacity, often uncontrolled, wandering, and shapeless. At one point the narrator admits he has made up the other "box man" entirely; several pages are devoted to a fantasy of turning into a fish and drowning; the story is interrupted by notes about the color of the writer's ink or the nature of the paper he is writing on. I take all those shapeless experiments as strategies to keep writing, to get the bizarre story, whatever it is, down on paper. I take the whole novel as a purge: Abe had lived this way, or tried it for a while, or wanted to, and wanted to get past it by writing the book.

What makes all this so memorable? It's the book's refusal to behave. Like Watt or Naked Lunch, two parallels in this regard, it strongly refuses continuity of purpose and imagination. Abe's combination of polymorphic perversions, sociopathic encounters, dry descriptions, inexplicable asides, obsessions with squalor and excretions, grainy street photography, detailed how-to instructions for living in carboard boxes, a plot that veers so often out of the author's control, and small, badly reproduced, disconnected photographs makes it one of the most memorable books in all postwar fiction.

(I have a longer essay on the images in the book, with information about the very rare catalog of Abe's own street photography, here: writingwithimages.com/4-6-kobo-abe-th....)