The Face of Another - Kobo Abe [68]
I have proved that a mask by its very existence is basically destructive. Equivalent to premeditated murder, the mask can stand shoulder to shoulder, with no feeling of inferiority, with arson or banditry. It was not surprising that the mask, which itself was a form of destruction, was not inspired to such crimes as arson and murder, although it was in the act of walking now through the ruins of human relationships destroyed by its existence. Despite the throbbing cancer of its cravings, it was satisfied simply to be.
THE centripetal, child-like cravings of the forty-hour-old mask … cravings of a famished fugitive who had just wrenched free from the scar webs.… What kind of freedom could this greedy craw, still carrying the traces of its manacles, possibly have?
Frankly, there was an answer. Basically, its cravings were not something understood by discussion; they had to be felt. Let me put it simply. They were a compulsive urge to become a sacrificial victim of the tribe. I realized this clearly the instant I stepped out into the street. What need had there been until now to be indirect, as if making excuses? Did I think I could perhaps avoid shame by being circuitous? No, I seem to be piling on justifications. But at this point I was not clinging to shame. I was clinging to just one thing: to try to superimpose an affair with you, however disagreeable, onto these cravings.
An affair with you, of course, was the shameless fantasy of the mask. Even though I wanted to feel something, hope for something, attempt something, the poison of jealousy (I had deliberately begun to forget it, though it was the root of all these fancies) recovered its breath and began to check the flow of blood in my veins. My fancies were connected, by an association of ideas, with the plans for the next day. The mask, as might be expected, could only feel ashamed and nonplussed at this. Anyway, the freedom of the mask, even though it lay chiefly in the abstract relationship with others, was like a bird bereft of its wings. The mask that had escaped banishment and was observing its truce could only stammer uncertainly.
Thereupon, the mask soothed me; with my continual worrying, it was I, not it, who would end up a means to an end. Even though I did wear a mask on my face, my body was the same as before. Well, I might just as well close my eyes and blot out the light from the world around me. Suddenly the mask and I became one, and there was no “other one” to be jealous of. If it was I myself who was touching you, then it was I too who was being touched by you; and there was no need to falter.
MARGINAL NOTE: On consideration, this is rather selfish reasoning. If one supposes that for oneself one is a set person and that for others one is an unknown person, half of me is a stranger. Even we yellow-skinned men were not originally a yellow race. We were first called yellow by a race of men whose skin was of a different color. Disregarding the promise of the face and making the lower half of the body the basis of personality are equally deceptive. If I maintain that the lower half of my body is unchanged, then I shall have to assume absolute responsibility for the erotic acts of the mask. In my fancies I accused you of shamelessly betraying me, and my body was wracked with the poison of jealousy; yet as soon as it was a question of myself, I called it a pure expenditure