Abé, Kōbō (Vol. 22)
Kōbō Abé 1924–
Japanese novelist, playwright, and short story writer.
Abé's work is not distinctly Japanese, but rather shows the influence of such Western writers as Kafka. He is a master of the philosophical novel, which incorporates his major themes, lost identity and alienation.
(See also CLC, Vol. 8, and Contemporary Authors, Vols. 65-68.)
[In The Woman in the Dunes, a man comes to a] village, each of whose houses is set in a deep pit in the dunes to protect it from the weather. He stays overnight in a house with a woman. In the morning no ladder is lowered for him. He is kept prisoner: to help shovel sand into buckets, to keep the house from being buried and, incited by proximity, to beget children with the woman. Thus he is impressed into the survival and continuity of the village.
The plot, which is what it must be called, is designed as a framework for symbolisms of freedom, love, tenacity, stupidity, hope. There is no inherent demerit in such a plot but there is inherent risk. As soon as the shape becomes clear, the reader becomes aware of a blueprint being slowly followed. Unless the author is able to keep us concentrated on the present moment with interest of character and richness of texture, we become impatient. This is too often true of Abé's book. (p. 21)
Stanley Kauffmann, "Novels from Abroad: 'The Woman in the Dunes'," in The New York Review of Books (reprinted with permission from The New York Review of Books; copyright © 1964 Nyrev, Inc.), Vol. III, No. 2, January 14, 1964, pp. 20-1.
The story of an unprepossessing schoolteacher captured on an insect-hunting excursion and subjected to slavery would seem merely bizarre if it were not treated in a meaningful way [in The Woman in the Dunes]. Some of Kobo Abé's readers will recall Kafka's manipulation of a nightmarish tyranny of the unknown, others Beckett's selection of sites like the sandpit of this novel as a symbol of the undignified human predicament. Yet others will see that Abé remains wholly Japanese in rendering his abstract theme through particulars observed with such attention that they take on an almost perverse beauty…. [He] has created a myth of suffering humanity within the recognizably real frame of contemporary Japanese society.He depicts the ease with which man loses civilized values while yet insisting upon a residual humanity. The unhappy schoolteacher is led skillfully from an initial realistic situation to his hovel in a sandpit where, like the other slave householders of the wretched seaside village, he is forced to keep back the encroaching sand. Throughout the novel he desperately plans escape. His single attempt is a failure, and when at last he might get free he has grown indifferent to release.
The result of enslavement is steady degradation and, conversely, the hero's growing respect for the woman of the book's title. Her strange appeal is partly that of enslavement, partly of femininity. She is artistically more successful as an individual and as a symbol than as an excuse for sexual excursions. There is no question about the success of the two central symbols, insects and sand…. The sand is alive and yet deadly, the hostile environment in which man must seek to establish his individuality, humanity, and civilization. The schoolteacher fails to escape it, but he comes to understand that life is a sandpit and even to achieve some dignity in his degradation….
In such a novel much depends upon intensity of tone, upon the credibility given the action, if the theme is to carry conviction. Apart from certain aspects of the woman and a section near the middle of the story, the tone and meaning are well sustained. What happens seems intolerable precisely because it is so grotesquely credible.
Earl Miner, "Life Is a Sandpit," in Saturday Review (copyright © 1964 by Saturday Review; all rights reserved; reprinted by permission), Vol. XLVII. No. 36, September 5, 1964, p. 32.
["The Face of Another"] is an intricately contrived fantasy, somewhat wanting in dramatic confrontation of characters, but replete with symbolic devices having to do with the fate of modern man.
The story, told in a series of letters and journal entries, is of a man who, as a result of a laboratory accident, has lost his face behind keloid scars, and who sets about making himself a new one. The process of imagining and producing the new face is an ordeal, the process of trying to put it to use a still greater one. The hero's motives in wishing to have "the face of another" are complex and contradictory, but central to them is a longing to re-establish communication with humanity, of which the loss of a face has deprived him. What he finds is only a companionship of loneliness. (pp. 4-5)
One of the most striking things about the book is that so little in it is overtly Japanese. The setting is urban, but the city could be anywhere from Buenos Aires to Leningrad…. [On] the whole, the characters are so anonymous and unattached and the setting as generalized as in Kafka—who of all Western writers would seem to have influenced Mr. Abé most.
Yet beneath it all there are Japanese strains. The journal form has been a favorite of Japanese prose writers for a millennium or so. On a somewhat deeper level, the imagery and the emotion, although they rarely have specific reference to things Japanese, are very much of Japan. The general mood of the book is not really one of despair (as its subject would seem to demand), but rather one of melancholy. Melancholy is much more congenial to the Japanese. (p. 5)
Edward Seidensticker, "Internationally Japanese," in The New York Times Book Review (© 1966 by The New York Times Company; reprinted by permission), September 18, 1966, pp. 4-5.
[Inter Ice Age 4] confirms once again [Kobo Abé's] mastery of the philosophical thriller. As its bleak geological title suggests, this is his furthest venture into the remote. Yet the time is just ahead of us in the interglacial epoch in which we live, and today the extrapolations of science fiction no longer seem quite so bizarre as they used to….
In Inter Ice Age 4 characterization sometimes yields to abstract speculation, or to a burst of virtuoso scientific imagery. But these passages, fascinating and poetic as they often are, only provide the setting for a compelling human drama. The sense of reality is even more vividly conveyed by the sensitivity of the central character, a vulnerable professor of computer technology, than by the mass of circumstantial detail….
The story is narrated by Professor Katsumi of the ICT (Institute for Computer Technique) in Tokyo, where [a self-programming computer with the capacity to make simple predictions] … has been developed. (p. 37)
Thanks to the marvels of his creation, Professor Katsumi is permitted to savor the exquisite torture of a televised view of his own, and humanity's, fate. In this perspective, the least sensations of everyday reality take on a haunting meaning…. Katsumi is a prime rationalist, a devotee to his machine-god; but, because he remains capable of pity, sorrow, and fear at a time when his scientific colleagues have been frozen into emotional sterility, he fulfills the needs of an existentialist drama spanning the blank abyss between present and future.
Inter Ice Age 4 exhibits the strengths that characterize Mr. Abé's other novels: brilliant narrative, rich description and invention, vital moral and intellectual concerns. Here the concerns are so dominant that they threaten to overwhelm the innocent pleasure of an engrossing piece of fiction. Mr. Abé will "furnish neither understanding nor solution of any sort"; rather, he is determined to "make the reader confront the cruelty of the future, produce within him anguish and strain, and bring about a dialogue with himself." (pp. 37-8)
Howard Hibbett, "Books: 'Inter Ice Age 4'," in Saturday Review (copyright © 1970 by Saturday Review; all rights reserved; reprinted by permission), Vol. LIII, No. 39, September 26, 1970, pp. 37-8.
The Times Literary Supplement
[Inter Ice Age 4] is described as "both science fiction and philosophical thriller"; well, as a thriller it is disappointing. It begins well enough, and the first half is reasonably successful in sustaining the reader's interest, but the second tends to be disjointed as well as unconvincing. Kobo Abé apparently took a medical degree and is therefore able to use the jargon effectively, but even the most devoted of modern doom-watchers are likely to find the pseudo-medical and scientific ideas in the novel too phantasmagorical and implausible. Indeed, much of the detail is just nauseating.
What, then, of the claim that the novel is "philosophical" and "challenging" and what about the "most profound moral concerns" of the author? The only direct clue to these is contained in a postscript in which Abé attempts to set out his concept of the novel and in particular the nature of "the future". This, he says, "gives a verdict of guilty to this usual continuity of daily life" and "is already cruel by virtue of being the future". Hardly profound or illuminating.
Unfortunately the novel has few merits to compensate for these disappointments: the characterization is negligible; not even Professor Katsumi comes to life. He seems just a figure in a nightmare. The other characters are no more solidly based, and for an understanding of human relationships (or amusement) the reader must look elsewhere.
"Something Fishy," in The Times Literary Supplement (© Times Newspapers Ltd. (London) 1971; reproduced from The Times Literary Supplement by permission), No. 3627, September 3, 1971, p. 1046.
Your reviewer had better admit from the beginning that he could not make head or tail of Kobo Abe's The Ruined Map. A private detective, searching for his missing person in a vast industrial city, loses his reason and begins to imagine that he is the person he is hunting for. That much is plain. As soon as the detective starts looking for the fellow, his reasoning becomes so blurred and his reactions so goofy that one decides he must have been hired as the stupidest private detective available….
When the detective, in a philosophical and introspective kind of way, begins to concentrate on a match box to the exclusion of everything else, we realise this is no normal detective thriller. It is...
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[Abé is] concerned with the solitude of men and women alienated from contemporary society and suffering from a loss of identity…. [Abé has deliberately deviated] from the dominant trend of the prewar Japanese novels. [He is] … completely free from the sentimentality of self-commiseration characteristic of the I-novelists…. [His prose style is also a mark of his] deviation from the Japanese tradition. Abé's style is objective, logical and lucid…. Abé's literary world has a closer kinship with that of Kafka and some contemporary European writers than that of his countrymen. (pp. 153-54)
From the point of view of literary technique Abé explored a new and unique possibility for prose fiction...
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WILLIAM F. Van WERT
While [Kobo Abe's] figurative language remains essentially Japanese ("His left shoulder made a sound like the splitting of chopsticks"), his themes are decidedly Western. Abe shares with writers like Dostoevsky, Kafka, and Robbe-Grillet an obsession for the hallucination vraie, the imaginary made "real" through an accumulation of precise detail. Abe's "visions" never fall apart upon a second reading, because the "science" in them is so solidly based.
But the key to understanding any Abe novel lies in the reader's ability to decipher the various levels of sexuality. All of Abe's protagonists are elitist mole-men, characters who resemble Dostoevsky's Raskolnikov, Kafka's K., and Robbe-Grillet's...
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If one could imagine a Tom Stoppard "Jumpers" written by Lewis Carroll and Kafka, translated with a minimal sense of topography to a modern Japanese setting (with a touch of Borges, as it were), one might be somewhere near grasping what Abe has done [in "Secret Rendezvous"]. But the stockpile of influences or analogues doesn't weaken or invalidate the book, which is both original and edgily entertaining….
The story concerns the head of a jump-shoe sales team, jump-shoes being a type of sports footwear with bouncy soles that make the wearer super-buoyant. One morning an ambulance suddenly and inexplicably arrives and carries off the salesman's wife, taking her to an enormous underground hospital....
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The New Republic
Kobo Abe delights in the excessive and the perverse. With its surrealistic setting, its claustrophobic atmosphere, and its increasingly distressing scenes of sexual decadence and violence, Secret Rendezvous disturbs rather than titillates. To the Western mind at least, this book is maddeningly, perhaps pointlessly, abstruse….
[Abe's hero] sets off one morning to track down his wife, who has been carried off, inexplicably, by an ambulance. Once inside the labyrinthian underground hospital, the man (the characters don't have names, only abstract identities) finds himself conducting his own full-scale investigation. The ostensible object of his search is his wife, but soon he realizes that in a...
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Kobo Abe refuses to write a conventional novel. He gives us a series of "notebooks" (and epilogue); within the "notebooks" are charts, banks of information, and clues. The fictional structure is a labyrinth, a "secret rendezvous" of science and poetry….
[In Secret Rendezvous, Abe is] giving us a violent and night-marish work. He deliberately mingles fear and pleasure to force us toward a philosophical position…. The novel outmaneuvers us;… it is full of deceptions, conceits, and reflections—and it suggests that "reality itself"—that is, the world outside of the fiction-world is ultimately inexplicable.
There is another turn—another part of the labyrinth…. Abe...
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