The Face of Another - Kobo Abe [9]
“But it isn’t particularly strange to respect content more than appearance, is it?”
“Do you mean respecting contents that have no container? I have no faith in that. As far as I’m concerned I firmly believe that man’s soul is housed in his skin.”
“Metaphorically speaking, of course.…”
“It’s no metaphor …,” he continued soothingly, but in a conclusive tone. “Man’s soul is in his skin. I believe that to the letter. During the war when I was in the Army as a doctor, I learned that through intense experience. It was routine on the battlefield for men to have their arms and legs shot off and their faces smashed to pieces. But what do you think the wounded appreciated most? It wasn’t their lives, nor even the recovery of their faculties; what concerned men more than anything else was whether or not their looks would be the same as before. At first, I too would laugh them down. Because on the battlefield any value outside of bodily health and the number of stars on your insignia did not signify. However, one time I came across a soldier who didn’t seem to be badly hurt, outside of a horribly disfigured face; but just when he was on the point of leaving the hospital, he committed suicide. He had been in a state of shock. Since then, I have come to observe with the greatest care the appearance of soldiers who have been wounded. And, ultimately, I have come to one conclusion. And it’s a distressing one: serious exterior injuries, especially to the face, leave definite mental trauma.”
“Well.… I suppose there are such cases. But, as long as there’s not exactly any basis in theory for the idea, I should not think of it as a general law no matter how many instances there were.” Suddenly an intolerable anger welled up in me. I had not come to talk about myself.
“Actually, I myself don’t feel so keenly about it yet,” I went on. “I beg your pardon. I’m terribly sorry I’ve been wasting your valuable time when I’m so undecided.”
“Please, just a minute.” He chuckled confidently. “Perhaps I have imposed on you, but I’m quite certain of what I’m saying. If you let things go as they are, most assuredly you’ll spend your whole life in bandages. The very fact of your wearing them at present is proof you think them infinitely better than what’s underneath. Well, for the present the face you had before you were hurt is still more or less living in the memories of the people around you. But time doesn’t wait. Gradually that memory will grow faint. People who never saw your original face will come to know you. In the end, you will be sentenced for nonpayment on the promissory note of your bandage. Although you’re alive, you’ll be consigned to oblivion.”
“You’re exaggerating! What do you mean by that?”
“You can see any number among the injured who have lost the use of their arms and legs. Even blind men and deaf mutes are not so extraordinary. But where have you ever seen a man without a face? You probably haven’t. Do you think they have all evaporated into thin air?”
“I don’t know. I’m not interested in other people.”
Inadvertently, my voice had become strident. It was like being severely lectured and forced to buy a lock after one has gone to the police station to report a theft. But K had not given up.
“I’m sorry, but apparently you don’t really understand. The face, in the final analysis, is the expression. The expression—how shall I put it?—well, the expression