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Zusatztext “A large! ambitious work about the lives of outcasts in modern Japan and such troubling themes as ecological destruction! old age! violence and nuclear war.” — The New York Times Book Review “As is true of Poe and Kafka—two writers whose influence does seem apparent—Abe creates on the page an unexpected impulsion. One continues reading! on and on.” — The New Yorker “Abe's depiction of the deadly game of survival is hilarious but at the same time leaves us with a chilling sense of apprehension about the brave new world that awaits us.” — Los Angeles Times Informationen zum Autor Kobo Abe (1924-1993) was one of the most acclaimed Japanese authors of the 20th century. His works include The Woman in the Dunes , Kangaroo Notebook , The Face of Another , The Box Man , The Ruined Map , Secret Rendezous , Inter Ice Age 4 , and several others. He was awarded the Tanizaki, Akutagawa, and Yomiuri Prizes. Klappentext A classic from the renowned Japanese novelist about isolation and the threat of a nuclear holocaust, The Ark Sakura is as timely today as it was at its original publication. In this Kafkaesque allegorical fantasy, Mole has converted a huge underground quarry into an "ark” capable of surviving the coming nuclear holocaust and is now in search of his crew. He falls victim, however, to the wiles of a con man-cum-insect dealer. In the surreal drama that ensues, the ark is invaded by a gang of youths and a sinister group of elderly people called the Broom Brigade, led by Mole's odious father, while Mole becomes trapped in the ark's central piece of equipment, a giant toilet powerful enough to flush almost anything, including chopped-up humans, out to sea.1 MY NICKNAME IS PIG--OR MOLE ONCE a month I go shopping downtown, near the prefectural offices. It takes me the better part of an hour to drive there, but since my purchases include a lot of specialized items--faucet packing, spare blades for power tools, large laminated dry cells, that sort of thing--the local shops won't do. Besides, I'd rather not run into anyone I know. My nickname trails after me like a shadow. My nickname is Pig--or Mole. I stand five feet eight inches tall, weigh two hundred fifteen pounds, and have round shoulders and stumpy arms and legs. Once, hoping to make myself more inconspicuous, I took to wearing a long black raincoat--but any hope I might have had was swept away when I walked by the new city hall complex on the broad avenue leading up to the station. The city hall building is a black steel frame covered with black glass, like a great black mirror; you have to pass it to get to the train station. With that raincoat on, I looked like a whale calf that had lost its way, or a discarded football, blackened from lying in the trash. Although the distorted reflection of my surroundings was amusing, my own twisted image seemed merely pitiful. Besides, in hot weather the crease in my double chin perspires so much that I break out in a rash; I can't very well cool the underside of my chin against a stone wall the way I can my forehead or the soles of my feet. I even have trouble sleeping. A raincoat is simply out of the question. My reclusion deepens. If I must have a nickname, let it be Mole, not Pig. Mole is not only the less unappealing of the two but also more fitting: for the last three years or so I've been living underground. Not in a cylindrical cave like a mole's burrow but in a former quarry for architectural stone, with vertical walls and level ceilings and floors. The place is a vast underground complex where thousands of people could live, with over seventy stone rooms piled up every which way, all interconnected by stone stairways and tunnels. In size the rooms range from great halls like indoor stadiums to tiny cubbyholes where they used to take test samples. Of cour...
