էս կոբոյից տենց էլ գլուխ չհանեցի, չհասկացա ինչ եմ զգում նրա գործերի հանդեպ, բայց միանշանակ ա, որ ինքը դիմում ա հույզերիդ, ավելի ճիշտ՝ զգացումներիդ՝ հենց շատ զգայական֊ֆիզիոլոգիական֊մարմնային ձևով, մասնավորապես՝ հասարակություն֊անհատ, մեկուսացում֊կոնտակտ կոնտինիումի վրա գտնվող զգացումներիդ֊զգացմունքներիդ։ չգիտեմ մարդ կգտնվի՞ որ աբե կարդալուց սուր չզգա էդ հակասությունը ու կոնֆլիկտը հենց իր մեջ։ բայց չեմ կարող ասել, թե դուրս եկավ կամ չեկավ, դուր գալու կամ չգալու բան չէր

Kobo Abe is perhaps my favorite Japanese author—even when writing the story of disaffected, socially isolated men struggling with identity and the tension between traditionalism and Westernization, he does it his own way, clearly distinguishing himself from the other Japanese writers like Sōseki, Mishima, Dazai, and Kawabata that have written on the same subject. The Box Man exemplifies this, as Abe engages with the challenges of modern urban living, and issues like social isolation and lack of self-fulfillment, but in a manner that has humor, elements of metafiction, and that is generally far more entertaining to me than the works of the other Japanese authors I’ve listed. This book, featuring a main character that walks around a city with most of his body covered in a large cardboard box, hits a variety of off-the-wall tones (I'm not going to go over the "action" of the book, as the experiential aspect of reading this one is far more important). As a matter of personal preference, I much preferred the whimsical tone it starts out with and sporadically returns to, rather than the other tones and the erratic shift between them, which (while understandable), is what made me find this book good but not great.

The city is a place of social overload, where you are always surrounded by people, become addicted to constant streams of news, and obsess over material goods. Abe believably presents the allure of being a box man to escape these conditions, the large cardboard box being a bubble of isolation in the midst of the city. The box man attains freedom from social obligations, but not at the cost of societal judgment: the box, and the anonymity it provides, protects from that. While a panhandler has done away with his shame for a livelihood that relies on being noticed, a box man retains his shame and relies on being actively ignored to survive. Living in a box, the materialism and social overload of the city are eliminated, as you retain only the essential objects and only interact with other people minimally.

Who hasn’t wanted to run away from society, to some cabin in the woods “away from it all?” The box presents the idea of such a cabin, but one that lets you remain in the city as an observer, without the reciprocal burden of being observed. In some of Abe’s depictions, like when the narrator sits beneath a bridge by a canal to get out of the rain, and writes notes in his box by the light of a flashlight suspended from the box’s ceiling, make the life of a box man seem downright tranquil and desirable. Of course, being a homeless person living in a cardboard box in real life would not give any of the tranquility depicted in The Box Man, but Abe taps into the desire to get away from the stresses of modern life and makes the depiction effective.

The unnamed box man protagonist (not that anyone in this book has a name) is the narrator of this work, and, as previously mentioned, he starts out writing of his life in a rather whimsical tone, giving instructions on how to make a box man box of your very own, depicting the creation of a box man, and more. This same whimsical tone reappears at times during The Box Man, such as in the story where a father pretends to be a horse, which provides the historical roots of the box man phenomenon. However, a far more surreal tone and a substantially darker tone manifest throughout the course of the work as well. The surreal tone most strongly comes to the fore when the text reaffirms that this work takes the form of notes authored by the box man, and draws into question whether the events he’s depicting actually occur in the universe of the book or if he’s just making it up. As the book gets further along, the darker narration takes the form of hallucinations of death, and the very ending of the book has a passage that seems ripped from a horror movie. These changes in tone are perfectly understandable given that the narrator is not mentally stable, but that doesn’t stop me from preferring the lighter, more fun opening tone to the other angles the narration explores.

And that’s ultimately what keeps me liking The Box Man but not loving it, as it’s at times exactly the type of thing I like, and at other times something very different. It’s entirely unique, even up to the news articles and editorial asides peppered throughout the book, but it’s only unique in ways that I enjoyed about half the time. The writing is good, with some striking visuals, the ideas are fresh and presented interestingly, and overall I enjoyed it very much. Personal preference keeps this a 4/5 for me, though, but I encourage you to give it a read in case you like it even better than I did.

Leaving his life behind, a man steps into a cardboard box and starts roaming the streets. In this novel Abe teaches how to turn a box into a moving home and how to adjust to the box man life style. But what makes a man want to become a box man?

Is it empowering to be unnoticed by the whole society? Is there really a power in seeing and weakness in being seen? A lot of questions are imposed throughout the narrative that starts slow and then picks up pace.

I am a big fan of Japanese experimentalism and Abe’s work is a great representation of the genre. With elements of metafiction and unusual timelines this book is a very different read from anything a reader might have read before. Perfect food for thought.

این کتاب جز اون دسته از کتاب هایی قرار میگیره که تا اخر داستان پیش خودت میگی : راوی کی بود ؟ از اون کتاب هایی که وقتی شروعش میکنی میگی اوکی کم حجم و روانه ، ولی وقتی به انتها میرسی میبینی چند روزه داری درموردش فکر میکنی و چالش های ذهنیت از دنیای توام با رئال و سورئالش بیرون نیومده

The fact that all I do now is sit in the corner with no clothes on inside a box must be some testament to this book's literary power, but it's driving my wife and kid bonkers.

Otherwise, three stars.

Are you up for some weird fiction? I mean REALLY weird fiction. Reading this Kōbō Abe novel, I had the feeling I was floating six feet off the ground - reader as artist of the floating world. If you are up for existentialism of the oddball variety, The Box Man may count among your all-time favorite novels.

The core of existentialism is the opposite of abstract theory; rather, artists and writers of the existential school tend to focus on a particular individual facing the very human dilemma of living in a world frequently absurd and alienating, a world where two men wait for Godot or a teacher walks the streets of a French town with a sense of nausea. So, keeping within the spirit of existentialism, I will refrain from generalizations and zero in on specific passages of Kōbō Abe's 1974 one-of-a-kind novel.

“This is the record of a box man. I am beginning this account in a box. A cardboard box that reaches just to my hips when I put it on over my head."

The narrator of the tale is a writer who sheds his past identity to become a box man. I agree completely with Jerome Charyn's statement from his 1974 New York Times review: "The action of the novel seems to take place inside the box, which has become a kind of labyrinth for the box man, a porous, breathing skin."

“The most important reason to use the standardized form is that it is hard to distinguish one box from another.”

Here the box man shares a key concept for others who might consider becoming box men: if you want to shed individual identity, go all the way; become a box man who cannot in any way be distinguished from other box man; become as indistinguishable as humanly possible. He goes on to provide advice on the ways one can deal with useful objects within one's box - thermos, flashlight, towel, pens, change of clothing.

“To construct your box there is no particular procedure to follow. . . . The greatest care must be taken when making the observation window. . . . Last of all, cut the remaining wire into one-, two-, four-, and six-inch lengths, bending back both ends, and prepare them as hooks for hanging things on the wall.”

Indeed, the most important aspect in being a box man is viewing the world through your slit in your box. Curiously, the box man sounds as if he has developed his own distinctively creative way to become a voyeur, so imaginative that he views himself viewing through his slit as much as the people and objects of his gaze. I recall Ernesto Sabato saying "hell is being looked at." So, for the box man, he can create hell for others via his own gaze while not becoming the subject of the gaze of others.

“As soon as anyone gets into this simple, unprepossessing paper cubicle and goes out into the streets, he turns into an apparition that is neither man nor box. A box man possesses some offensive poison about him.”

I can imagine the reaction of others in the city to the box man. Back in the 70s I recall a college student who wore a black cloak over his body down to his shoes and called himself "The Black Bag." He said after a few days the other students on campus got used to him. Actually, I thought this fellow was rather cool.

“He squeezed the trigger. The barrel of the gun, and then the box, made a noise like that of a wet trouser cuff snapped by an umbrella handle. . . . The lead bullet must have bored into the fellow’s body with great force. But neither the screams nor the jeers he had anticipated were forthcoming.”

Ah! The box man reports a number of case studies, including how one box man was attacked by a gunman. Not everybody in society will remain passive when confronted by a box man.

“The rebounding bullet flying about inside his cranium would doubtless set his brain functions askew. After observing the neighborhood for a while, he drew the curtains over the windows and gingerly crawled into the box. . . . The place seemed very homelike. . . . He wanted to stay like that forever, but in less than a minute he came to his senses and crawled out.”

So the gunman tries out the box for himself. Sorry, it might appear like an appealing way of life conceptually or for the first five minutes, but, as he soon discovers, not everyone is cut out to be a real, live box man.

“I want to spy on all sorts of places, and the box is a portable hole that occurred to me under the circumstances, it being impossible to punch holes throughout the world.”

Now that's worth chewing on. The "ordinary" way of moving around in the world, you are part of the outside thus nothing like looking through a slit in a box. No question - the only way to gain first-hand experience of the box man is to do it yourself.

“The reason men somehow go on living, enduring the gaze of others, is that they bargain on the hallucinations and inexactitude of human eyes.”

Very true. Could you take being seen as you truly are, with all your foibles and quirks? If it wasn't for others' misperceptions we might be running for our boxes. Or so thinks the box man.

“I personally feel that a box, far from being a dead end, is an entrance to another world. I don't know to where, but an entrance to somewhere, some other world.”

But one has the distinct impression the box man has not succeeded in his desire to be in the world without a particular identity. In his box, he actually goes about inventing his own past life and future dreams. But then again, perhaps the box man has a past he wants to hide.

“Clinging to one’s outward appearance interferes with living.”

How much weight do you put on your outward appearance? Would you gain or lose freedom if you chose to live in a box? I recall one of my roommates back in college said if he had a continuous supply of LSD, he'd be more than happy to live his entire life in a closet. How about that - a closet. At least with a box, you can move around.

Recall I said this novel is REALLY weird back there. I wasn't kidding.


Japanese author Kōbō Abe, 1924-1993

2.5 stars

Compared to his "The Woman in the Dunes" (Penguin, 2006), this novel was simply a bit disappointing due to my tedious reading on and on and I could not find any reason why the weird man prefers being naked and being in a box. ...


To continue ...

A surreal tale about a fragile identity, and a place of the individual in this uncertain world. We are ready to believe the narrator, but before long we are asking who is he and how much can we believe of what he tells?
Was it a real experiment or mystification, fantasies of a troubled mind, or just a dream? There can be numerous interpretations.

الكتاب رقم ( ٨٩ )
عام ٢٠٢٥
الكتاب : المعلب
المؤلف : كوبو آبي
التصنيف : رواية
.
.

Absurd, creepy and brilliant. An absolutely strange work of original fiction.

Kaçıncı okuyuşum oldu Kutuadam'ı?

Öncelikle ''derin okuma neymiş?'' onu anlıyorum. Kurduğum bağlantılardan ördüğüm ağ, delirmiş bir örümceğin ardında bıraktığı izlere benziyor. Bu delilikten mamül ağın karşısına geçip, profesör gözlüklerimi takarak bilgiç bilgiç çıkarımlar yapıyorum. Ama gözlüğümü takar takmaz yaşadığım ilk aydınlanma, tam olarak o deliliğin içinde yaşadığımı görmek oluyor. Öyleyse hangi gözlük koruyabilir beni bu deliliğin karşıkonulamaz ağından? Körleşme'yi düşünüyorum; Kien'i, Therese'nin kitap okurken kullandığı plastik eldivenlerini. Sahi ne oldu Therese'e. Belki ben de Kutuadam'ı plastik eldivenler takıp okumalıydım.

Beket'in Acaba Nasıl'ını anımsıyorum sık sık, çamurun içinde tekme-tokat-yumruklar tiyatrosu. Sırtta taşınan, sadece ağırlık olsun diye taşınan, bir çuval. Pim Pom'a yumruk atarken, arkadan Bam'dan tekme yemektedir ve Bam kafasına yediği yumruğun öfkesiyle bir tokat daha savururuken... Aynanın karşısına gidip aynaya bakıyorum, yüzüm gözüm öyle morarmış ki bu oyun içinde, üzerine bir de ben kırmızı bir ruj sürüyorum. Şaka şaka diyorum, morluklar da boya; gülümsüyorum- bu hüzünle ne yapıcaz? Bilmiyorum.

Yaptığım analizler her ne kadar ''nafile'', hayal ürünü de olsa şu yaşadığımız dünyada kesinlikle bir karşılığı olduklarını biliyorum. Neyin doğru neyin yanlış olduğunu en iyi sen bilirsin, diyor Abe bana, bir de göz kırpıyor ama öyle hafif bir göz kırpması ki; belki de ben uydurdum diyorum. Bedenimi sarsıyorum, şöyle dik durmaya çalışarak- gözümden o akılllık emaresi gözlüğü çıkarıp bi kenara koyuyor- ve sokağa atıyorum kendimi. Sokak, dans etmek için uygun bi yer gibi görünüyor Aslı'nın gözüne. Başlıyorum ritmli yürüyüşüme. Acaba Kobo Abe beni görse, ne derdi diyorum. Kaybolmuş bir romantik; akışkan bir beden; yoksa içinde yaşadığı kutunun duvarlarını ufka kadar genişletmiş bir kent sakini; normal biri işte canım. Gombrowicz iyi anlar bu işlerden ama ortalıkta görünmüyor şimdilik. İçinde yaşadığım evi seviyorum, bazı eşyaları, kitaplarımı... Hiçbir zaman ilk hedefim sahip olmak olmadı, korkularımı bastırmak konusunda cesur davrandım, en azından bunlarla yetinebilirim diyorum. Gözlerimle Abe'yi arıyorum onay almak için, çoktan gitmiş. Beckett 'boşver sen onu' der gibilerinden bir bakış atıyor, 'Onun kimseyi sevdiği görülmemiştir zaten.' Huysuz herif! Canım Beckett diyorum, bir sarılmak arzusuyla uzanıyorum, o da gitmiş.

Hababam dans ediyorum çünkü yarattığım patırtının kutunun duvarlarına açtığı delikler gittikçe büyüyor, açılan deliklerden daha önce görmediğim şeyler görüyorum arada bir. Bir de, deniz kokusu.... Yapma be Aslı diyorum, biliyosun deniz kokusu sadece yüzmeyi bilmedikleri için boğulan balıkları cezbeder. Sahi, ben zaten dereleri seviyorum.

----

Çok kısa bir süre içinde dördüncü okuyuşum ve her seferinde olanca dikkatimle, özet mözet çıkararak okumama rağmen, hep aynı tuzaklara düşüyorum. Kobo Abe öyle bir oyun kurmuş ki;her okuyuşumda kendimi mukavva kutudan yapılma atımın üzerine binmiş, elimde bir pırasa, yanımda da peluştan timsahımla, müthiş bir dedektife dönüşmüş buluyorum. Sisifos ve Don Kişot karışımı bi' ''gerçek'' avcısı oluveriyorum. Bana her seferinde gerçek Kutuadam'ın kim olduğu önemli değil dese de, ben her seferinde arıyorum o ''gerçek'' Kutuadam'ı ve sonunda da turnusol kağıdıyla patates tartmaya çalışan bir marangozdan öteye gidemediğimi keşfediyorum.
Her okuyuşumda mutlaka bir şey keşfediyorum.
Her seferinde aydınlandım sanıp, çabucak sönüyorum.

Bir de Kutuadam'ın paranoid şizofren evreninde göz, görmek, bakış kavramları öyle sivri işleniyor ki, onunla yata kalka yaşantımı bile etkiledi. Bir süredir on kilometre mesafede insan olmayan bir ormanın içinde yaşıyorum ve ormana tuvalete her çıkışımda elinde dürbün beni izleyen biriyle karşılaşacakmışım gibi gerilim yaşıyorum yok yere. Böylece beni izleyen birileri var mı diye sapkınca bir dürtüyle ormana, ağaçlara ve kendini göstermeyi sevmeyen sincaplara bakarken ben de HOOPPP! bir dikizciye dönüşüveriyorum. Sincaplar, çınar yaprakları, umarsız çobanlar ve vöyorizm isimli bir araştırmaya denk gelirseniz, bilin ki bendendir.

Kobo Abe beni eline aldı yoğurdu, ellerinden ve güzel gözlerinden öpüyorum.

Elveda ve bütün tokatlar için teşekkürler.

Kobo Abe made really high quality, surreal fiction. "Japan's Kafka" or whatever,

(IMHO, any critic who resorts to any version or variation of
that fucking meaningless trick ought to be fired for
laziness, then blacklisted for disrespect.)

so if you are into writing serious surreal prose, I'd check him out.

Oh, and I like The Box Man better than Woman In The Dunes; so if you liked WITD and happen to like the same things I like you'll probably prefer this book too.

(Note: That fucking mad-ass trick where I totally deflated
the sentence before it was finished is known as "Shirkery".
"Shirkery" is only one of the many writing secrets I learned
while attending the Secretive Writers Retreat and Plastic
Bookmark Foundry. Ask me about it when you have $700,
and feel ready to forge writing so real it hurts to read.)


protect yo' neck,
Jacob