Free The Box Man by Kobo Abe Page A

death in such a form. I intended to vanish naturally-when the time came-like a volatilized drop of water. But this was the real world, not imagination. How in heaven’s name had B met his end?
    Of course, it did not necessarily follow that the death of the box was exactly B’s physical death. Perhaps he just passed through the tunnel and threw the box away. The corpse of the box became a butterfly (if a butterfly is too romantic, then a cicada will do, or a May fly), the castoff skin of a chrysalis that has flown away. I wanted to think it was possible. If I didn’t, I couldn’t have been able to stand it. And to do so I needed proof. I concentrated my gaze on the graffiti all around, searching for evidence. Unfortunately B apparently regularly used a felt tip marker, the ink of which was water soluble, and deciphering was nigh impossible. There was a cover on the little plastic box. If there was some clue it would surely be in there. When I wrenched off the incrusted top the hinge split open. Inside were two ballpoint pens, a handleless knife, a flint for a lighter, a crystalless watch with only the minute hand, and then a small notebook with the cover missing. The first page of the notebook began in this way. Fortunately I copied it on the spot on the inner side of my box (at the time there was still a lot of blank space left), and I am able to quote it exactly.
    “His concern was excessive. Wizen he was absent from his room even a little longer than usual, he worried lest in the meantime the room might not have disappeared, and he could not go out in peace. Gradually his proclivity to stay at home grew worse. It got to the point where he would shut himself up in his room, unable to take a step outside. In the end he died either from hunger or by hanging. Of course, I hear that no one has as yet identified the corpse?’
    When I tried turning the next page the notebook fell apart between my fingers like a soaked biscuit. With it my evidence crumbled away too, and I was still unable to assess the significance of the crushed and empty box corpse.
    Now should I bid goodbye to the box? But my underwear and my shirt for some reason were taking a long time to dry. The rain had lifted, but because of the moisture laden, low clouds they were long in drying. Fortunately I felt fine there naked in the box. Perhaps it was because I had carefully cleaned off the dirt, but the various parts of my body felt strangely fresh, and I even experienced an actual longing to embrace myself. But I did not intend to stay like this forever. I hoped the morning calm would end soon.
    The dark, wet sky and the black sea fused at eye level. The water was much darker than the sky. A deep black like an elevator falling. A bottomless black that you could still see even if you shut your eyes. I could hear the sea. I could see the inside of my own cranium. A dome shaped tent whose inner struts are exposed. Exactly like the inside of a dirigible. My complete lack of sleep sends my blood pounding. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to sleep at least two or three hours before leaving the box. I tried shutting my eyes even tighter than they were. Waves became visible. Waves in regularly receding, gradually narrowing parallel lines kept rolling ceaselessly toward the open sea. There were a front and back to the successive waves, and the front part glinted slightly. As I leaned forward, trying to see through them, my right and left eyeballs popped out and dropped straight down. And from where they had fallen a wisp of smoke came wafting up. As the eyeballs bounced against each other, they kept rolling between the waves. I felt nauseous. I opened my eyes. Sea and sky stood still, blackly, and everything was as it had been originally. I was miserably small on the hard, wet sand. Apparently I could only wait with my eyes open until I was overcome with sudden sleep.

    But even if I can’t catch a nap, I must, under any circumstances, begin the planned course of action