The Face of Another - Kobo Abe [62]
WELL now, how shall I deal with this excessive freedom?
If someone were to view my covetous behavior with dispassion, he would frown upon it. However, the mask had originally been no one, and thus it experienced no pain at all, for it made no difference to it how it was thought of. It had no need to be ashamed, nor to justify itself, and this feeling of release was very comforting. The release from the sense of shame, especially, bathed me in a music that rose bubbling round my ears.
MARGINAL NOTE: True, I must make special mention of this music. Ornamental neon lights, blanched night skies, girls’ legs that expanded and contracted with their stockings, forgotten alleys, corpses of dead cats in trash cans, tobacco ashes, and then … and then—I cannot name them all—every one of these scenes made its own particular music, its own particular noise. And for the sake of this music alone, I wanted to believe in the reality of the time I was anticipating.…
EXCURSUS: It goes without saying that the above “marginal note” took place before the immediately preceding excursus, and was written down immediately after the text. From my present feeling, it is difficult to recall just where such music was. But I do not have the confidence to strike the passage out.
Though the mask’s alibi was flawless, and the freedom it promised inexhaustible, I wondered if it were not ignoble to be satisfied with the freedom of behaving covetously; I was disoriented, like a penniless man who has suddenly acquired a great sum of money. I knew this already. The saké brought a tipsy feeling of release, knotting into lumps of craving throughout my body, and I became like an old tumorous tree. In addition, the freedom placed right under my nose now, compared to the “freedom” I had been enjoying, restricted by age, position, and profession, was exactly like raw meat dripping blood as opposed to the mere word “meat.” Just looking and saying nothing could do me no good. Far from being satisfied, my mask opened the roadway wide, like the mouth of a frogfish gloatingly awaiting the arrival of the bait.
But unfortunately, I did not know if hunting down the game would be worth the expenditure of freedom. Was I too accustomed to conserving freedom? If my craving for freedom were inadequate, even though it left my body cancer-ridden, humorously enough I could augment my craving only by the exercise of logic.
I wasn’t boasting about fine craving. In any case, my alibi was guaranteed, and I did not mind a bit how disgusting or even immoral it might be. Rather, since I had a feeling of release from my real face, it was tempting to break the law, to disdain good sense. However, what came in answer to my demand—perhaps unconsciously induced by the air pistol in my pocket—were grossly unattractive acts that smacked of gangsterism: blackmail, extortion, robbery. Of course, if I could bring even these off successfully, it would be a great exploit for me. If their real character were to be exposed, the strangeness of this combination would be first-class news copy. If I were really inclined to try, I would not hold back. I might make those with real faces—pseudo-masks—who feign ignorance, understand the actual form of abstract human relations, and at least I could express my pent-up revenge on the scars.
I was not being hypocritical, but why was I not inclined to this type of immorality? The reason was extremely simple: for one thing, there was no particular need for a real mask; even a bandage disguise would