Vanessa Hall
on Kobo Abe's The Woman in the Dunes
 
 

Before achieving international renown as an author, the Japanese novelist Kobo Abe was a mere Kafka-worshiping med student. Therefore, it is not surprising that Abe attempted to blend Existentialist philosophy, Buddhist allegory, and the scientific method in all of his works. The most famous result of this heady philosophical mélange is The Woman in the Dunes—a nightmarish meditation upon entomology, human nature, and the meaning of life. In this novel, Abe saturates a deceptively simple plot with significance; The Woman in the Dunes is a veritable crash course in both Asian philosophy and Western Existentialist thought. Unfortunately, such intellectual subject matter does not necessarily make for pleasurable reading. At times, Abe’s prose is unbearably terse and clinical. This lack of stylistic technique exposes both Abe and his hero’s preoccupation with the scientific method. In The Woman in the Dunes, ideas take precedence over description and substance supercedes style.

a still from the Hiroshi Teshigahara film, 1964

As is the case with many intellectually ambitious works, the actual plot of The Woman in the Dunes is quite simple. It resembles nothing so much as a philosophical parable. The novel’s characters are convenient excuses for Abe to tackle existential angst. Abe’s protagonist is Niki Jumpei, a middle-aged schoolteacher and amateur entomologist. While on holiday, Jumpei travels from his city home to a remote seaside area. He intends to study the insects that live in the area’s sand dunes; his most fervent hope is to discover a new species and thus preserve his name for "something less than eternity" (Abe 10). While rambling through the dunes, Jumpei comes across a village half-buried in sand. The houses sit in deep sandpits and can only be reached by rope ladders. After demanding to know if Jumpei is a government inspector, the rustic and sand-worn villagers inform him that the last bus has left; Jumpei will have to stay in the village overnight. He is brought into one of the pit-houses, where a young widow welcomes him. Though she is quite ignorant, the widow is attractive and Jumpei finds himself drawn to her. As sand cascades from the dune walls around them, the widow explains her tragic life—her husband and child were buried alive by the shifting sand. Halfway through the night, the woman begins shoveling sand away from the walls of the house; failure to complete this monotonous task would allow the sand to completely bury the house and endanger the neighboring homes. The village council has decreed that only those who shovel are entitled to food, water, and other provisions. In the morning, Jumpei realizes that the rope ladder has disappeared and he is trapped inside the widow’s pit. He has become a sand slave; in order to survive, he must shovel alongside the woman. Jumpei finds the eternal task of carting away the self-replenishing sand both abhorrent and insane; however, his many attempts at escape fail miserably. Eventually, Jumpei comes to rely on the monotony and simplicity of sand pit life; the erotic tension between himself and the widow gives way to a sexual relationship. At the novel’s end, the widow is ill with an ectopic pregnancy and is taken to the nearest hospital. In their haste to rescue her, the villagers forget to remove the rope ladder from the pit. Presented with a sure-fire means of escape, Jumpei tells himself there is "no particular hurry about escaping" (239).

Abe’s fascination with the scientific method, rules, and rational thought dominate The Woman in the Dunes. Before he utterly resigns himself to his fate, the intellectual and educated Jumpei repeatedly endeavors to make sense of his situation by using the scientific method. He begins by mentally defining "sand"—"a particle of crushed rock of such dimension as to be easily moved by a fluid" (14). Jumpei is always assessing, checking things. He is forever measuring the angles and degrees of the curving sand walls. This statistical approach soon gives way to imaginary philosophic and scientific dialogues with one of Jumpei’s colleagues, the so-called "Mobius man" (99). Rules and obedience to rules are also very important to Jumpei. He convinces himself that despite his eventual sexual involvement with the widow, he doesn’t owe her any allegiance—"since there had been no contract" between them, "there could be no breach of contract" (190). Additionally, he is infuriated by the villagers disregard for the law and his inalienable rights. Science may be Jumpei’s darling but it continually fails him; though he meticulously plans his escapes, he never succeeds in leaving the village. In fact, Jumpei’s last attempt brings him even closer to death when he falls into quicksand. Nonetheless, Jumpei refuses to abandon his faith in facts and figures—"his margin of error was not more than a half mile on either side…he may have missed his way, but it could not be serious" (190).

In yet another prime example of his dependence upon science, Jumpei interprets the actions of the villagers through the matrix of entomology. The sand-engulfed village’s pits and corridors resemble a honeycomb and its workers are ant-like in their tireless scurrying. Their actions are "quite like the behavior of the beetle" (38). He feels superior to these subhuman villagers and condemns their senseless battle against 1/8 mm particles of rock. However, Abe subtly expresses Jumpei’s own bug-like behaviors; as the entomologist shifts into the nightly repetition of sand shoveling, he succumbs to the ant colony mentality of the villagers. He exists to eat, sleep, and shovel. Gooey secretions ooze from his sand-crusted eyes and he becomes as nocturnal as any moth. Jumpei’s only pretense at human emotion—his bizarre relationship with the widow—results in his most bestial actions. Though he has nothing but contempt for her stupidity and blind devotion to the doomed village, Jumpei sexually desires the widow. This desire subsequently leads to several unsettling sex scenes. The woman and Jumpei copulate with the emotional detachment of insects. Afterwards, Jumpei coldly reflects

In the final analysis, nothing had been of any avail, nothing had been finished. It was not he who had satisfied his desires, but apparently someone quite different…Sex, of its nature, was not defined by a single, individual body but by the species (142). After perusing these cold-blooded sentiments, The Woman in the Dunes’ reader half expects Jumpei to bite his lover’s head off or encase her in spider-silk; Abe’s protagonist has morphed from respectable schoolteacher to Kafka-esque insect with surprising ease.

Jumpei, of course, does not acknowledge this subtle transformation. Being trapped in a sandy hole by moronic villagers is quite a blow to his conception of his own importance and individuality. Much of The Woman in the Dunes is devoted to Jumpei’s insistence that his own life—the life of the individual—is singularly important. Jumpei scolds the villagers for detaining him and avers that the police will soon be searching for him. Abe’s own outlook on the importance of the individual is exposed in the first lines of the novel:

One day in August, a man disappeared…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….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 (1, 6). Clearly, Abe intends to expose the inanity and egotism of his protagonist’s Existential angst. The narrative voice of The Woman in the Dunes tells us that all men have a one-way ticket in life and are all headed towards one common destination, death. However, this should not be a source of human sorrow. "Only the man who obstinately hangs on to a round trip ticket" is pitiable (161). [The round trip ticket man] grows desperate lest the return half of his ticket be lost or stolen; he buys stocks, signs up for life insurance, and talks out of both sides of his mouth to his union pals and his superiors. He hums "The One-Way Ticket Blues" with all his might…in an attempt to drown out the peevish voices of those who only have a one-way ticket and who keep asking for help (161). Jumpei categorically refuses to accept the fate of the one-way ticket holders; he stubbornly believes that he has a round-trip ticket. Furthermore, he concludes that the woman’s only merit is "that she clung to her round-trip ticket like him" (172). Eventually, Jumpei’s faith in his own importance crumbles. "What is the use of individuality when one is on the point of death," he despairs (201). This is a Vanessa Hall essay.

Abe deftly fuses a very Asian allegory with this Western Existentialism. Jumpei is trapped in sand—it surrounds him, seeping into his eyes, his clothing, and his food. He cannot escape these seemingly insignificant 1/8 mm granules. The sand is an allegory for life itself; it represents Buddhist samsara, the ever-lasting (and ultimately meaningless) cycle of existence. Niki Jumpei is trapped by his human mortality; it sifts into every crevice of his existence. Though he devises one plan after another, he will always fail to escape from the transience of his human life. In the end, he becomes strangely complacent and resigns himself to his sandy, ephemeral life. In accordance with Buddhist doctrine, Jumpei ceases to rebel against his surroundings and becomes aware of his present, rather than obsessing about his future—"there is no particular need to hurry about escaping," he decides.

The Woman in the Dunes is a deftly woven tale of science, philosophy, and religion. Through Niki Jumpei and his Sisyphus-like imprisonment, Kobo Abe explores the human condition. Existence is nothing; it is a necessary illusion. The importance of the individual is surpassed by group force—the immediate needs of the sand village overpower Jumpei’s own pursuits and desires. I thoroughly respect The Woman in the Dunes and Abe’s unmistakable philosophic prowess; his ambitious alchemy of Existentialism, science and Buddhism never falters or grows repetitive. However, I did not enjoy the novel. None of the characters in The Woman in the Dunes are particularly likeable; I was disturbed and unsettled by the cruel detachment and futile pursuits of Jumpei and the widow. In spite of this overwhelming unpleasantness, I found the novel very intellectually stimulating. Therefore, I would recommend Kobo Abe’s work for its medicinal value alone. The Woman in the Dunes is Existential penicillin; it has a horrid taste but is ultimately good for you.