Kobo Abe - Woman In The Dunes

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The Woman in the Dunes

Translated from the Japanese by

E. DALE SAUNDERS

With drawings by

MACHI ABE

The Woman in the Dunes

KOBO ABE

VINTAGE BOOKS

A Division of Random House, New York

States by Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada

Limited, Toronto. Originally published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., in 1964.

Originally published in Japanese by Shinchosha as Suna no Onna.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Abe-, Kobo,

The woman in the dunes.

Translation of Suna no onna.

I. Title.

[PZ4.A13Wo5] [PL845.B4] ISBN 0-394-71814-

.6T5 72-

Manufactured in the United States of America Vintage Books Edition, September

WITHOUT THE THREAT OF PUNISHMENT

THERE IS NO JOY IN FLIGHT

PART I

ONE day in August a man disappeared. He had simply set out for the seashore on a holiday, scarcely

half a day away by train, and nothing more was ever heard of him. Investigation by the police and

inquiries in the newspapers had both proved fruitless.

Of course, missing persons are not really uncommon. According to the statistics, several hundred

disappearances are reported every year. Moreover, the proportion of those found again is unexpectedly

small. Murders or accidents always leave some clear piece of evidence, and the motives for kidnapping

are normally ascertainable. But if the instance does not come under some such heading, clues—and this is

especially true in the case of missing persons—are extremely difficult to come by. Many disappearances,

for example, may be described as simple escape.

In the case of this man, also, the clues were negligible.

Though his general destination was known, there had been no report from the area that a body had been

discovered. By its very nature, it was inconceivable that his work involved some secret for which he

might have been abducted. His quite normal behavior had not given the slightest hint that he intended to

vanish.

Naturally, everyone at first imagined that a woman was involved. But his wife, or at least the woman he

lived with, announced that the object of his trip had been to collect insect specimens. The police

investigators and his colleagues felt vaguely disappointed. The insect bottle and net were hardly a feint for

a runaway trip with a girl.

Then, too, a station employee at S———had remembered a man getting off the train who looked like a

mountain climber and carried slung across his shoulders a canteen and a wooden box, which he took to

be a painting set The man had been alone, quite alone, the employee said, so speculation about a girl was

groundless.

The theory had been advanced that the man, tired of life, had committed suicide. One of his colleagues,

who was an amateur psychoanalyst, held to this view. He claimed that in a grown man enthusiasm for

such a useless pastime as collecting insects was evidence enough of a mental quirk. Even in children,

unusual preoccupation with insect collecting frequently indicates an Oedipus complex. In order to

compensate for his unsatisfied desires, the child enjoys sticking pins into insects, which he need never fear

will escape. And the fact that he does not leave off once he has grown up is quite definitely a sign that the

condition has become worse. Thus it is far from accidental that entomologists frequently have an acute

desire for acquisitions and that they are extremely reclusive, kleptomaniac, homosexual. From this point

to suicide out of weariness with the world is but a step. As a matter of fact, there are even some

collectors who are attracted by the potassium cyanide in their bottles rather than by the collecting itself,

and no matter how they try they are quite incapable of washing their hands of the business. Indeed, the

man had not once confided his interests to anyone, and this would seem to be proof that he realized they

were rather dubious.

Yet, since no body had actually been discovered, all of these ingenious speculations were groundless.

Seven years had passed without anyone learning the truth, and so, in compliance with Section 30 of the

civil code, the man had been pronounced dead.

ONE August afternoon a man stood in the railroad station at S———. He wore a gray peaked hat, and

the cuffs of his trousers were tucked into his stockings. A canteen and a large wooden box were slung

over his shoulders. He seemed about to set out on a mountain-climbing expedition.

Yet there were no mountains worth climbing in the immediate vicinity. Indeed, the guard who took his

ticket at the gate looked at him quizzically after he passed through.

The man showed no hesitancy as he entered the bus standing in front of the station and took a seat in the

back. The bus route led away from the mountains.

The man stayed on the bus to the end of the run. When he got off, the landscape was a mixture of

hillocks and hollows. The lowlands were rice paddies that had been divided into narrow strips, while

among them slightly elevated fields planted with persimmon trees were scattered about like islands. The

man passed through a village and continued walking in the direction of the seashore; the soil gradually

became whitish and dry.

After a time there were no more houses, only straggling clumps of pine. Then the soil changed to a fine

sand that clung to his feet. Now and again clumps of dry grass cast shadows in hollows in the sand. As if

by mistake, there was occasionally a meager plot of eggplants, the size of a straw mat. But of human

shadows there was not a trace. The sea, toward which he was headed, lay beyond.

For the first time the man stopped. He wiped the perspiration from his face with his sleeve and gazed

around. With deliberation, he opened the wooden box and from the top drawer took out several pieces

of pole that had been bundled together. He assembled them into a handle and attached an insect net to

one end. Then he began to walk again, striking the clumps of grass with the bottom of the shaft. The smell

of the sea enveloped the sands.

Some time went by, but the sea still could not be seen. Perhaps the hilly terrain obstructed the view. The

unchanging landscape stretched endlessly on. Then, suddenly, the perspective broadened and a hamlet

came into sight. It was a commonplace, rather poor village, whose roofs, weighted down with stones, lay

clustered around a high fire tower. Some of the roofs were shingled with black tile; others were of zinc,

painted red. A zinc-roofed building at the hamlet's single crossroad seemed to be the meeting house of a

fishermen's cooperative.

Beyond, there were probably more dunes, and the sea. Still, the hamlet was spread out to an unexpected

extent. There were some fertile patches, but the soil consisted mostly of dry white sand. There were

fields of potatoes and peanuts, and the odor of domestic animals mingled with that of the sea. A pile of

broken shells formed a white mound at the side of the clay-and-sand road, which was as hard as cement.

As the man passed down the street, children were playing in the empty lot in front of the cooperative,

some old men were sitting on the sagging veranda repairing their nets, and thin-haired women were

gathered in front of the single general store. All movement ceased for a moment as they looked curiously

at him. But the man paid no attention. Sand and insects were all that concerned him.

However, the size of the village was not the only surprising thing. Contrary to what one would expect, the

road was gradually rising. Since it led toward the sea, it would be more natural for it to descend. Could

he have misread the map? He tried questioning a young village girl who was passing by just then. But she

lowered her eyes and, acting as if she had not heard a thing, hurried on. Yet the pile of shells, the fishing

nets, and the color of the sand told him that certainly the sea lay nearby. There was really nothing yet that

foretold danger.

The road began to rise more and more abruptly; more and more it became just sand.

But, curiously enough, the areas where houses stood were not the slightest bit higher. The road alone

rose, while the hamlet itself continued to remain level. No, it was not only the road; the areas between the

buildings were rising at the same rate. In a sense, then, the whole village seemed to have become a rising

slope with only the buildings left on their original level. This impression became more striking as he went

along. At length, all the houses seemed to be sunk into hollows scooped in the sand. The surface of the

sand stood higher than the rooftops. The successive rows of houses sank deeper and deeper into the

depressions.

The slope suddenly steepened. It must have been at least sixty-five feet down to the tops of the houses.

What in heaven's name could it be like to live there? he thought in amazement, peering down into one of

the holes. As he circled around the edge he was suddenly struck by a biting wind that choked his breath

in his throat. The view abruptly opened up, and the turbid, foaming sea licked at the shore below. He

was standing on the crest of the dunes that had been his objective!

The side of the dunes that faced the sea and received the monsoon winds rose abruptly, but straggling

clumps of scrub grass grew in places where the incline was not as steep. The man looked back over his

shoulder at the village, and he could see that the great holes, which grew deeper as they approached the

crest of the ridge, extended in several ranks toward the center. The village, resembling the cross-section

of a beehive, lay sprawled over the dunes. Or rather the dunes lay sprawled over the village. Either way,

it was a disturbing and unsettling landscape.

But it was enough that he had reached his destination, the dunes. The man drank some water from his

canteen and filled his lungs with air—and the air which had seemed so clear felt rough in his throat.

The man intended to collect insects that lived in the dunes.

Of course, dune insects are small and soberly colored. But he was a dedicated collector, and his eye was

not tempted by anything like butterflies or dragonflies. Such collectors do not aspire to decking out their

specimen boxes with gaudy samples, nor are they particularly interested in classification or in raw

materials for Chinese medicines. The true entomologist's pleasure is much simpler, more direct: that of

discovering a new type. When this happens, the discovers name appears in the illustrated encyclopedias

of entomology appended to the technical Latin name of the newly found insect; and there, perhaps, it is

preserved for something less than eternity. His efforts are crowned with success if his name is

perpetuated in the memory of his fellow men by being associated with an insect.

The smaller, unobtrusive insects, with their innumerable strains, offer many opportunities for new

discoveries. For a long time the man had also been on the lookout for double winged flies, especially

common house flies, which people find so repulsive. Of course, the various types of flies are unbelievably

numerous, and since all entomologists seem to think pretty much alike, they have pursued their

investigations into the eighth rare mutant found in Japan almost to completion. Perhaps mutants are so

abundant because the fly's environment is too close to man's.

He had best begin by observing environment. That there were many environmental variations simply

indicated a high degree of adaptability among flies, didn't it? At this discovery he jumped with joy. His

concept might not be altogether bad. The fact that the fly showed great adaptability meant that it could be

at home even in unfavorable environments in which other insects could not live—for example, a desert

where all other living things perished.

From then on he began to manifest an interest in sand. And soon this interest bore fruit. One day in the

dry river bed near his house he discovered a smallish light-pink insect which resembled a double-winged

garden beetle (Cicindela japonica Motschulsky). It is common knowledge, of course, that the garden

beetle presents many variations in color and design. But the form of the front legs, on the other hand,

varies very little. In fact, the front legs of the sheath-wing beetle constitute an important criterion for its

classification. And the second joint on the front legs of the insect that had caught the man's eye did indeed

have striking characteristics.

Generally speaking, the front legs of the beetle family are black, slender, and agile. However, the front

legs of this one seemed to be covered with a stout sheath; they were round, almost chubby, and

cream-colored. Of course, they may have been smeared with pollen. One might even assume some sort

of condition—the presence of hair, for example—which would cause the pollen to adhere to the legs. If

his observations were correct he had certainly made a most important discovery.

But unfortunately he had let it escape. He had been too excited, and besides the beetle's pattern of flight

was confusing. It flew away, and then as if to say "Catch me!" it turned and waited. When he approached

it cautiously it flew away again, turned around, and waited. Mercilessly tantalizing, its course had at last

led it to a clump of grass into which it disappeared.

The man was completely captivated by the beetle with the yellowish front legs.

When he had observed the sandy soil, it seemed to him that his guess was correct. Actually, the beetle

family is representative of desert insects. According to one theory, their strange pattern of flight is a snare

for the purpose of enticing small animals away from their nests. Prey such as mice and lizards are lured

out in spite of themselves, wander into the desert, and collapse from hunger and fatigue. Their bodies

then become the beetles' food. These beetles have the elegant Japanese name of "letter-bearer" and

present graceful features, but actually they have sharp jaws and are ferocious and cannibalistic by nature.

But whether or not his theory was correct, the man was unquestionably beguiled by the mysterious

pattern of the beetle's flight.

And his interest in sand, which was the condition for the beetle's existence, could not help but grow. He

began to read everything he could about it. And as his research progressed he realized that sand was a

very interesting substance. For example, opening to the article on sand in the encyclopedia, he found the

following:

SAND: an aggregate of rock fragments. Sometimes including loadstone, tinstone, and more rarely gold

dust. Diameter: 2 to 1/16 mm.

A very clear definition indeed. In short, then, sand came from fragmented rock and was intermediate

between clay and pebbles. But simply calling it an intermediate substance did not provide a really

satisfactory explanation. Why was it that isolated deserts and sandy terrain came into existence through

the sifting out of only the sand from soil in which clay, sand, and stones were thoroughly mixed together?

If a true intermediate substance were involved, the erosive action of wind and water would necessarily

produce any number of intermingling intermediate forms in the range between rock and clay. However,

there are in fact only three forms that can be clearly distinguished from one another: stones, sand, and

clay. Furthermore, sand is sand wherever it is; strangely enough, there is almost no difference in the size

of the grains whether they come from the Gobi Desert or from the beach at Eno-shima. The size of the

grains shows very little variation and follows a Gaussian distribution curve with a true mean of 1/8 mm.

One commentary gave a very simple explanation of the decomposition of land through the erosive action

of wind and water: the lighter particles were progressively blown away over great distances. But the

particular significance of the 1/8-mm. diameter of the grains was left unexplained. In opposition to this,

another book on geology added an explanation along these lines:

Air or water currents set up a turbulence. The smallest wavelength of this turbulent flow is about equal to

the diameter of the desert sand. Owing to this peculiarity, only the sand is extracted from the soil, being

drawn out at right angles to the flow. If the cohesion of the soil is weak, the sand is sucked up into the air

by light winds—which, of course, do not disturb stones or clay—and falls to the ground again, being

deposited to the leeward. The peculiarities of sand would seem to be a matter of aerodynamics.

Hence, we can add this to the first definition as "b": a particle of crushed rock of such dimension as to be

easily moved by a fluid.

Because winds and water currents flow over the land, the formation of sand is unavoidable. As long as

the winds blew, the rivers flowed, and the seas stirred, sand would be born grain by grain from the earth,

and like a living being it would creep everywhere. The sands never rested. Gently but surely they invaded

and destroyed the surface of the earth.

This image of the flowing sand made an indescribably exciting impact on the man. The barrenness of

sand, as it is usually pictured, was not caused by simple dryness, but apparently was due to the ceaseless

movement that made it inhospitable to all living things. What a difference compared with the dreary way

human beings clung together year in year out.

Certainly sand was not suitable for life. Yet, was a stationary condition absolutely indispensable for

existence? Didn't unpleasant competition arise precisely because one tried to cling to a fixed position? If

one were to give up a fixed position and abandon oneself to the movement of the sands, competition

would soon stop. Actually, in the deserts flowers bloomed and insects and other animals lived their lives.

These creatures were able to escape competition through their great ability to adjust—for example, the

man's beetle family.

While he mused on the effect of the flowing sands, he was seized from time to time by hallucinations in

which he himself began to move with the flow.

His head bent down, he began to walk, following the crescent-shaped line of dunes that surrounded the

village like a rampart and towered above it. He paid almost no attention to the distant landscape. An

entomologist must concentrate his whole attention within a radius of about three yards around his feet.

And it is one of the fundamental rules that he should not have the sun at his back. If the sun should get

behind him, he would frighten the insects with his own shadow. As a result; a collector's forehead and

nose are always sunburned.

The man advanced slowly at a steady pace. With every step the sand splashed up over his shoes. Except

for shallow-rooted weeds that looked as though they would shoot up in a day if there were any moisture,

there appeared to be no living thing. Once in a long while, tortoise-shell-colored flies would flit around,

drawn by the odor of human perspiration. However, precisely because it was such a place, he could

expect to find something. Beetles are not especially gregarious, and they say that, in extreme cases, a

single beetle will cordon off an area of as much as one square mile. Patiently, he kept walking round and

round.

Suddenly he paused in his tracks. Something had stirred near the roots of a clump of grass. It was a

spider. Spiders were of no use to him. He sat down to smoke a cigarette. The wind blew ceaselessly

from the sea and, far below, turbulent white waves beat against the base of the sand dunes. Where the

dunes fell away to the west a slight hill crowned with bare rock jutted out into the sea. On it the sunshine

lay scattered in needlepoints of light.

He had difficulty getting his matches to light. Out of ten tries not one had caught. Along the length of the

match-sticks he had thrown away, ripples of sand were moving at about the speed of the second hand of

his watch. He focused his attention on one wavelet, and when it arrived at the tip of his heel he arose.

The sand spilled from the gathers in his trousers. He spat, and the inside of his mouth felt rough.

So probably there weren't too many insects. Perhaps the movement of the sand was too violent. No, he

shouldn't be so quickly discouraged; his theory guaranteed that there would be some.

The line of dunes leveled off, and a section jutted out on the side away from the sea. He was lured on by

the feeling that in all probability his prey was there, and he made his way down the gentle slope. Here and

there the remains of what seemed like a wind fence made of wattling marked off the point of the

promontory, beyond which, on a still lower level, lay a plateau. He went on, cutting across the ripples of

sand, which were hewn with machine-like regularity. Suddenly his line of vision was cut off, and he stood

on the verge of a cliff looking down into a deep cavity.

The cavity, over sixty feet wide, formed an irregular oval. The far slope seemed relatively gentle, while in

contrast the near side gave the feeling of being almost perpendicular. It rolled up to his feet in a smooth

curve, like a lip of heavy porcelain. Placing one foot gingerly on the edge, he peered in. The shadowy

interior of the hole, set against the luminous edge, already announced the approach of evening.

In the gloom at the bottom a small house lay submerged in silence. One end of its ridgepole was sunk

diagonally into the sand wall. Quite like an oyster, he thought.

No matter what they did, he mused, there was no escaping the law of the sand.

Just as he was placing his camera in position, the sand at his feet began to move with a rustle. He drew

his foot back, shuddering, but the flow of the sand did not stop for some time. What a delicate,

dangerous balance! Breathing deeply, he wiped his sweaty palms several times on the sides of his

trousers.

A coughing broke out next to him. Unnoticed, an old man, apparently one of the village fishermen, was

standing there almost touching his shoulder. As he looked at the camera and then at the bottom of the

hole, the old fellow grinned, screwing up his face, which was wrinkled like a half-tanned rabbit skin. A

sticky secretion encrusted the corners of his reddened eyes.

"Are you inspecting?"

It was a thin voice, blown by the wind, rather as if it came from a portable radio. But the accent was

clear and not particularly difficult to catch.

"Inspecting?" Flustered, he concealed the lens with his palm. He shifted his insect net into full view. "What

do you mean? I don't understand. I'm collecting insects. My specialty is sand insects."

"What?" The old man did not seem to have understood.

"Collecting insects," he repeated again in a loud voice. "Insects. In-sects. I catch them like this!"

"Insects?"

The old man appeared dubious. Looking down, he spat Or perhaps it would be more exact to say he let

the spittle ooze from his mouth. Snatched from his lips by the wind, it sailed out in a long thread. Good

heavens, what was he so nervous about?

"Is there some inspecting going on in this vicinity?"

"No, no. As long as you're not inspecting, I really don't mind what you do."

"No, I'm not inspecting."

The old man, without even nodding, turned his back and, scuffing the tips of his straw sandals, went

slowly away along the ridge.

Some fifty yards further on—when had they come?—three men dressed alike, apparently waiting for the

old man, squatted silently on the sand. The one in the middle had a pair of binoculars, which he was

turning around and around on his knee. Soon the three, joined by the old man, began to discuss

something among themselves. They kicked the sand at their feet. It looked as if they were having a violent

argument.

Just as he was trying unconcernedly to go on with his search for the beetle, the old man came hurrying

back again.

"Then you're really not someone from the government office?"

"The government office? You're quite wrong."

Abruptly he took out his business card, as if to indicate that he had had enough. The old man's lips

moved laboriously.

"Ah! You're a schoolteacher!"

"I have absolutely no connection with the government office."

"Hmm. So you're a teacher."

At last he appeared to understand, and the corners of his eyes wrinkled up. Carrying the card

respectfully, he went back again. The three others, apparently satisfied, stood up and withdrew.

But the old man returned once again.

"By the way, what do you intend doing now?"

"Well, I'm going to look for insects."

"But the last bus back has already gone."

"Isn't there any place I can stay here?"

"Stay all night? In this village?" The man's face twitched.

"If I can't stay here, I'll walk on to the next village."

"Walk?"

"As a matter of fact, I'm in no special hurry."

"Well, why go to all that trouble?" He suddenly became loquacious. "You can see this is a poor village,"

he said in an accommodating tone. "There isn't a decent house in it, but if it's all right with you I'll put in a

good word and see what I can do to help you out."

He did not seem to bear any ill will. They were just being cautious—perhaps on the lookout for some

prefectural official who was scheduled to come on a tour of inspection. With their sense of caution

appeased, they were merely good, simple fisherfolk.

"I should be very grateful if you would. Of course, I will expect to show my appreciation… I am

particularly fond of staying in village houses."

THE sun had set and the wind had slackened somewhat He walked along the dunes until he could no

longer distinguish the pattern hewn by the wind in the sand.

There seemed to be nothing that faintly resembled crops.

Orthoptera—small-winged crickets and white-whiskered earwigs.

Rhynchota—red-striped soldier bugs. He was not certain of the name, but surely it was a type of soldier

bug.

Of the sheath-winged insects which he sought: white-backed billbugs and long-legged letter-droppers.

He had not been able to spot a single one of the beetle family that was his real aim. And indeed for that

very reason he was anticipating the fruits of the next day's battle.

His fatigue brought faint spots of light dancing on his retina. Then, in spite of himself, he stopped walking

and fixed his eyes on the surface of the darkening dunes. It was no use; anything that moved looked like

a beetle.

As he had promised, the old man was waiting for him in front of the cooperative offices.

"I'm sorry for all this trouble."

"Not at all. I only hope you'll like what I found for you."

A meeting seemed to be in session in the offices. Four or five men were sitting in a circle, from which

shouts of laughter rose. On the front of the entry hung a horizontal plaque with large lettering: LOVE

YOUR HOME. The old man said something; abruptly the laughing stopped, and he walked out leading

the others. The shell-strewn road floated vague and white in the twilight.

He was escorted to one of the cavities on the ridge of the dunes at one end of the village.

From the ridge a narrow path went down the slope to the right. After they had walked on awhile, the old

man leaned over into the darkness and, clapping his hands, shouted in a loud voice: "Hey! Granny! Hey,

there!"

From the depths of the darkness at their feet a lamp flickered, and there was an answer.

"Here I am! Here! There's a ladder over by the sandbags."

Indeed, without the ladder he could not possibly have got down. He would have had to catch hold on the

cliff with his bare hands. It was almost three times the height of the house top, and even with the ladder it

was still not easy to manage. In the daytime, he recalled, the slope had seemed to him rather gentle, but

as he looked at it now, it was close to perpendicular. The ladder was an uncertain thing of rope, and if

one lost one's balance it would get hopelessly tangled up. It was quite like living in a natural stronghold.

"You needn't worry about anything. Have a good rest."

The old man turned around and went back, without going all the way to the bottom.

Sand poured down from overhead. The man had a feeling of curiosity, as if he had returned to his

childhood. He wondered whether the woman was old; she had been called granny. But the person who

came to meet him, holding up a lamp, was a smallish, nice sort of woman around thirty. Perhaps she was

wearing powder; for someone who lived by the sea, she was amazingly white. Anyway, he was

extremely grateful for her cheerful welcome, from which she could not conceal her own pleasure.

Indeed, if it had not been for the warm reception, the house itself would have been difficult to put up with

at all. He would have thought they were making a fool of him and would doubtless have gone back at

once. The walls were peeling, matting had been hung up in place of sliding doors, the upright supports

were warped, boards had replaced all the windows, the straw mats were on the point of rotting and

when one walked on them they made a noise like a wet sponge. Moreover, an offensive smell of burned,

moldering sand floated over the whole place.

Well, everything depended on one's attitude. He was disarmed by the woman's manner. He told himself

that this one night was a rare experience. And, if he were lucky, he might run up against some interesting

insects. It was certainly an environment in which insects would gkdly live.

His premonition was right. No sooner had he taken the seat offered him beside the hearth, which was

sunk in the earthen floor, than all around there was the sound of what seemed to be the pitter-patter of

rain. It was an army of fleas. But he was not one to be overwhelmed by such things. An insect collector is

always prepared. He had dusted the inside of his clothing with DDT, and it would be wise, before he

went to sleep, to daub some insecticide on the exposed parts of his body.

"I'm just fixing something to eat. If you'll just wait a few minutes more…" the woman said, half standing

and taking the lamp. "Can you get along without the light for a moment, please?"

"Do you only have one lamp?"

"I'm sorry, yes."

She laughed, a little embarrassed. On her left cheek a dimple appeared. Apart from her eyes, she had

undeniable charm, he thought. Perhaps the look in her eyes was the result of some affliction. No matter

how much make-up she used, she could not conceal the inflamed corners. Before going to bed, he

decided, he would without fail apply some eye medicine too.

"It doesn't make any difference, but first I would rather like a bath."

"A bath?"

"Don't you have one?"

"I'm terribly sorry, but could you put it off until the day after tomorrow?"

"The day after tomorrow? But I won't be here the day after tomorrow." In spite of himself he laughed

aloud.

"Oh?"

She turned her face away with a drawn-up expression. She was disappointed, he supposed, and, of

course, with country folk there is no attempt at pretense. He ran his tongue several times over his lips

with a feeling of embarrassment.

"If you don't have a barji, some water that I could pour over me would do just fine. My whole body's

covered with sand."

"I'm sorry, but we don't have more than a bucketful of water either. The well is pretty far away."

She looked quite abashed, and he decided to say no more. He was soon to realize, unpleasantly, the

uselessness of bathing.

The woman brought in the meal: clam soup with boiled fish. Very much a shore meal, it seemed. That

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TheWomanintheDunesTranslatedfromtheJapanesebyE.DALESAUNDERSWithdrawingsbyMACHIABETheWomanintheDunesBYKOBOABEVINTAGEBOOKSADivisionofRandomHouse,NewYorkCopyright©1964byAlfredA.Knopf,Inc.AllrightsreservedunderInternationalandPan-AmericanCopyrightConventions.PublishedintheUnitedStatesbyRandomHouse,Inc.,...

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Kobo Abe - Woman In The Dunes

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