Free The Box Man by Kobo Abe

flag flapping round a bamboo pole. No matter how much of the way back here is downhill, I couldn’t possibly have just come rolling down. I must have had some purpose, whatever it was.
    As a matter of fact, it was right here that I had made my preparations a week before to go to the hospital to get treatment for my wound. It’s an ideal place for a box man to leave his box unnoticed. I wanted to clean my underwear and my shirt, shave, and wash my hair, to say nothing of my body. I was free to use the hydrant at the station or the boat landing, but the crowds came here late, and if I choose my time well I can take it easy and use the shower in the dressing room without being questioned by anyone.
    I really don’t have to hide. Just a moment ago, I finished doing what I had come for. I had cleaned my underwear, shaved my beard, washed my hair and my body. To avoid catching a cold I withdrew temporarily to the box until my underwear and shirt were dry, but this was purely to tide me over, and I intended to leave it presently. Yes, I had the impression of being already half out. You don’t need any particular resolution to scratch where you’re bitten by an insect. The exit to the tunnel was visible right there. If the box is a moving tunnel, the naked girl is a dazzling light flowing in the entrance, waiting intently to be seen. I think that surely here is the opportunity I have been waiting for for three years.
    Furthermore, I unexpectedly met the fake box man. My replica was fixedly staring at the girl on all fours with her rump high in the air (defenselessly waiting to be seen). So far I had not felt that the box was all that unsightly. What was disagreeable was the recurrent dream where I became a ghost, and hovering at the ceiling, looked down on my own dead body. Could I still have a lingering attachment for the box at this point? Far from that, I was already thoroughly bored with it. A tunnel is functional only because it has an exit. It makes absolutely no difference if I tear these notes up and throw them away as soon as I finish this last line here… .
    It can’t be very long since I began living in a box. I once saw a broken and empty cardboard box roughly stuffed into the narrow space between a public john and a board fence (perhaps around some outdoor parking lot). The box with its resident gone was like a deserted house. The aging process had apparently been rapid, and the box had weathered to the color of withered grapes. But at a glance I was able to distinguish that it was the discarded skin of a box man. There, where it appeared half torn away, was what remained of the observation window … the curled vinyl curtain was still pasted on. On the sides the protuberant clusters of little holes for hearing were all swollen like some skin disease. I tried to strip away the surface. It sounded like adhesive plaster tearing off, and the inside of the box was visible. I instinctively inserted myself into the space and concealed this sloughed off skin from the gaze of those passing by.
    On the inside of the box, like a handprint impressed in clay, the traces of the life of the former occupant (let us give him the name B for the moment) were vividly and negatively etched. There were the traces of the cheap chopsticks he had used to strengthen the torn places by attaching them with insulation tape, and clippings of nude photos, now faded and bearing stains the color of bird droppings. There was a red cord to tie to the trouser belt so that the box would not shake; a little plastic box was located underneath the observation window. Further, traces of numerous graffiti covered the entire surface. Large and small white rectangular spaces outlined the spots where such things as the radio, the bag, and the flashlight had formerly been suspended.
    My strength drained away and I felt cold. I had the feeling of witnessing the opening of the sarcophagus of B’s mummy. I quivered. I had never contemplated my own (my box’s)