Microsoft Word KoboAbe-WomanInTheDunes doc

particles were progressively blown away over great distances. But the 
particular significance of the 1/8-mm. diameter of the grains was left 
unexplained. In opposition to this, another book on geology added an 
explanation along these lines: 
Air or water currents set up a turbulence. The smallest wavelength of 
this turbulent flow is about equal to the diameter of the desert sand. 
Owing to this peculiarity, only the sand is extracted from the soil, being 
drawn out at right angles to the flow. If the cohesion of the soil is weak, 
the sand is sucked up into the air by light winds—which, of course, do 
not disturb stones or clay—and falls to the ground again, being 
deposited to the leeward. The peculiarities of sand would seem to be a 
matter of aerodynamics. 
Hence, we can add this to the first definition as "b": a particle of 
crushed rock of such dimension as to be easily moved by a fluid. 
Because winds and water currents flow over the land, the formation of 
sand is unavoidable. As long as the winds blew, the rivers flowed, and 
the seas stirred, sand would be born grain by grain from the earth, and 
like a living being it would creep everywhere. The sands never rested. 
Gently but surely they invaded and destroyed the surface of the earth. 
This image of the flowing sand made an indescribably exciting impact 
on the man. The barrenness of sand, as it is usually pictured, was not 
caused by simple dryness, but apparently was due to the ceaseless 
movement that made it inhospitable to all living things. What a 

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difference compared with the dreary way human beings clung together 
year in year out. 
Certainly sand was not suitable for life. Yet, was a stationary condition 
absolutely indispensable for existence? Didn't unpleasant competition 
arise precisely because one tried to cling to a fixed position? If one were 
to give up a fixed position and abandon oneself to the movement of the 
sands, competition would soon stop. Actually, in the deserts flowers 
bloomed and insects and other animals lived their lives. These 
creatures were able to escape competition through their great ability to 
adjust—for example, the man's beetle family. 
While he mused on the effect of the flowing sands, he was seized from 
time to time by hallucinations in which he himself began to move with 
the flow. 
3
His head bent down, he began to walk, following the crescent-shaped 
line of dunes that surrounded the village like a rampart and towered 
above it. He paid almost no attention to the distant landscape. An 
entomologist must concentrate his whole attention within a radius of 
about three yards around his feet. And it is one of the fundamental 
rules that he should not have the sun at his back. If the sun should get 
behind him, he would frighten the insects with his own shadow. As a 
result; a collector's forehead and nose are always sunburned. 
The man advanced slowly at a steady pace. With every step the sand 
splashed up over his shoes. Except for shallow-rooted weeds that 
looked as though they would shoot up in a day if there were any 
moisture, there appeared to be no living thing. Once in a long while, 
tortoise-shell-colored flies would flit around, drawn by the odor of 
human perspiration. However, precisely because it was such a place, 
he could expect to find something. Beetles are not especially 
gregarious, and they say that, in extreme cases, a single beetle will 
cordon off an area of as much as one square mile. Patiently, he kept 
walking round and round. 
Suddenly he paused in his tracks. Something had stirred near the roots 
of a clump of grass. It was a spider. Spiders were of no use to him. He 

---

sat down to smoke a cigarette. The wind blew ceaselessly from the sea 
and, far below, turbulent white waves beat against the base of the sand 
dunes. Where the dunes fell away to the west a slight hill crowned with 
bare rock jutted out into the sea. On it the sunshine lay scattered in 
needlepoints of light. 
He had difficulty getting his matches to light. Out of ten tries not one 
had caught. Along the length of the match-sticks he had thrown away, 
ripples of sand were moving at about the speed of the second hand of 
his watch. He focused his attention on one wavelet, and when it arrived 
at the tip of his heel he arose. The sand spilled from the gathers in his 
trousers. He spat, and the inside of his mouth felt rough. 
So probably there weren't too many insects. Perhaps the movement of 
the sand was too violent. No, he shouldn't be so quickly discouraged; 
his theory guaranteed that there would be some. 
The line of dunes leveled off, and a section jutted out on the side away 
from the sea. He was lured on by the feeling that in all probability his 
prey was there, and he made his way down the gentle slope. Here and 
there the remains of what seemed like a wind fence made of wattling 
marked off the point of the promontory, beyond which, on a still lower 
level, lay a plateau. He went on, cutting across the ripples of sand, 
which were hewn with machine-like regularity. Suddenly his line of 
vision was cut off, and he stood on the verge of a cliff looking down 
into a deep cavity. 
The cavity, over sixty feet wide, formed an irregular oval. The far slope 
seemed relatively gentle, while in contrast the near side gave the feeling 
of being almost perpendicular. It rolled up to his feet in a smooth curve, 
like a lip of heavy porcelain. Placing one foot gingerly on the edge, he 
peered in. The shadowy interior of the hole, set against the luminous 
edge, already announced the approach of evening. 
In the gloom at the bottom a small house lay submerged in silence. 
One end of its ridgepole was sunk diagonally into the sand wall. Quite 
like an oyster, he thought. 
No matter what they did, he mused, there was no escaping the law of 
the sand. 

---

Just as he was placing his camera in position, the sand at his feet began 
to move with a rustle. He drew his foot back, shuddering, but the flow 
of the sand did not stop for some time. What a delicate, dangerous 
balance! Breathing deeply, he wiped his sweaty palms several times on 
the sides of his trousers. 
A coughing broke out next to him. Unnoticed, an old man, apparently 
one of the village fishermen, was standing there almost touching his 
shoulder. As he looked at the camera and then at the bottom of the 
hole, the old fellow grinned, screwing up his face, which was wrinkled 
like a half-tanned rabbit skin. A sticky secretion encrusted the corners 
of his reddened eyes. 
"Are you inspecting?" 
It was a thin voice, blown by the wind, rather as if it came from a 
portable radio. But the accent was clear and not particularly difficult to 
catch. 
"Inspecting?" Flustered, he concealed the lens with his palm. He shifted 
his insect net into full view. "What do you mean? I don't understand. 
I'm collecting insects. My specialty is sand insects." 
"What?" The old man did not seem to have understood. 
"Collecting insects," he repeated again in a loud voice. "Insects. In-
sects. I catch them like this!" 
"Insects?" 
The old man appeared dubious. Looking down, he spat Or perhaps it 
would be more exact to say he let the spittle ooze from his mouth. 
Snatched from his lips by the wind, it sailed out in a long thread. Good 
heavens, what was he so nervous about? 
"Is there some inspecting going on in this vicinity?" 
"No, no. As long as you're not inspecting, I really don't mind what you 
do." 
"No, I'm not inspecting." 

---

The old man, without even nodding, turned his back and, scuffing the 
tips of his straw sandals, went slowly away along the ridge. 
Some fifty yards further on—when had they come?—three men dressed 
alike, apparently waiting for the old man, squatted silently on the sand. 
The one in the middle had a pair of binoculars, which he was turning 
around and around on his knee. Soon the three, joined by the old man, 
began to discuss something among themselves. They kicked the sand at 
their feet. It looked as if they were having a violent argument. 
Just as he was trying unconcernedly to go on with his search for the 
beetle, the old man came hurrying back again. 
"Then you're really not someone from the government office?" 
"The government office? You're quite wrong." 
Abruptly he took out his business card, as if to indicate that he had had 
enough. The old man's lips moved laboriously. 
"Ah! You're a schoolteacher!" 
"I have absolutely no connection with the government office." 
"Hmm. So you're a teacher." 
At last he appeared to understand, and the corners of his eyes wrinkled 
up. Carrying the card respectfully, he went back again. The three 
others, apparently satisfied, stood up and withdrew. 
But the old man returned once again. 
"By the way, what do you intend doing now?" 
"Well, I'm going to look for insects." 
"But the last bus back has already gone." 
"Isn't there any place I can stay here?" 
"Stay all night? In this village?" The man's face twitched. 

---

"If I can't stay here, I'll walk on to the next village." 
"Walk?" 
"As a matter of fact, I'm in no special hurry." 
"Well, why go to all that trouble?" He suddenly became loquacious. 
"You can see this is a poor village," he said in an accommodating tone. 
"There isn't a decent house in it, but if it's all right with you I'll put in a 
good word and see what I can do to help you out." 
He did not seem to bear any ill will. They were just being cautious—
perhaps on the lookout for some prefectural official who was scheduled 
to come on a tour of inspection. With their sense of caution appeased, 
they were merely good, simple fisherfolk. 
"I should be very grateful if you would. Of course, I will expect to show 
my appreciation… I am particularly fond of staying in village houses." 
4
THE sun had set and the wind had slackened somewhat He walked 
along the dunes until he could no longer distinguish the pattern hewn 
by the wind in the sand. 
There seemed to be nothing that faintly resembled crops. 
Orthoptera—small-winged crickets and white-whiskered earwigs. 
Rhynchota—red-striped soldier bugs. He was not certain of the name, 
but surely it was a type of soldier bug. 
Of the sheath-winged insects which he sought: white-backed billbugs 
and long-legged letter-droppers. 
He had not been able to spot a single one of the beetle family that was 
his real aim. And indeed for that very reason he was anticipating the 
fruits of the next day's battle. 
His fatigue brought faint spots of light dancing on his retina. Then, in 
spite of himself, he stopped walking and fixed his eyes on the surface of 

---

the darkening dunes. It was no use; anything that moved looked like a 
beetle. 
As he had promised, the old man was waiting for him in front of the 
cooperative offices. 
"I'm sorry for all this trouble." 
"Not at all. I only hope you'll like what I found for you." 
A meeting seemed to be in session in the offices. Four or five men were 
sitting in a circle, from which shouts of laughter rose. On the front of 
the entry hung a horizontal plaque with large lettering: LOVE YOUR 
HOME. The old man said something; abruptly the laughing stopped, 
and he walked out leading the others. The shell-strewn road floated 
vague and white in the twilight. 
He was escorted to one of the cavities on the ridge of the dunes at one 
end of the village. 
From the ridge a narrow path went down the slope to the right. After 
they had walked on awhile, the old man leaned over into the darkness 
and, clapping his hands, shouted in a loud voice: "Hey! Granny! Hey, 
there!" 
From the depths of the darkness at their feet a lamp flickered, and there 
was an answer. 
"Here I am! Here! There's a ladder over by the sandbags." 
Indeed, without the ladder he could not possibly have got down. He 
would have had to catch hold on the cliff with his bare hands. It was 
almost three times the height of the house top, and even with the 
ladder it was still not easy to manage. In the daytime, he recalled, the 
slope had seemed to him rather gentle, but as he looked at it now, it 
was close to perpendicular. The ladder was an uncertain thing of rope, 
and if one lost one's balance it would get hopelessly tangled up. It was 
quite like living in a natural stronghold. 
"You needn't worry about anything. Have a good rest." 

---

The old man turned around and went back, without going all the way 
to the bottom. 
Sand poured down from overhead. The man had a feeling 
of curiosity, as if he had returned to his childhood. He 
wondered whether the woman was old; she had been 
called granny. But the person who came to meet him, 
holding up a lamp, was a smallish, nice sort of woman 
around thirty. Perhaps she was wearing powder; for 
someone who lived by the sea, she was amazingly white. 
Anyway, he was extremely grateful for her cheerful 
welcome, from which she could not conceal her own 
pleasure. 
Indeed, if it had not been for the warm reception, the 
house itself would have been difficult to put up with at all. He would 
have thought they were making a fool of him and would doubtless have 
gone back at once. The walls were peeling, matting had been hung up 
in place of sliding doors, the upright supports were warped, boards had 
replaced all the windows, the straw mats were on the point of rotting 
and when one walked on them they made a noise like a wet sponge. 
Moreover, an offensive smell of burned, moldering sand floated over 
the whole place. 
Well, everything depended on one's attitude. He was disarmed by the 
woman's manner. He told himself that this one night was a rare 
experience. And, if he were lucky, he might run up against some 
interesting insects. It was certainly an environment in which insects 
would gkdly live. 
His premonition was right. No sooner had he taken the seat offered him 
beside the hearth, which was sunk in the earthen floor, than all around 
there was the sound of what seemed to be the pitter-patter of rain. It 
was an army of fleas. But he was not one to be overwhelmed by such 
things. An insect collector is always prepared. He had dusted the inside 
of his clothing with DDT, and it would be wise, before he went to sleep, 
to daub some insecticide on the exposed parts of his body. 

---

"I'm just fixing something to eat. If you'll just wait a few minutes 
more…" the woman said, half standing and taking the lamp. "Can you 
get along without the light for a moment, please?" 
"Do you only have one lamp?" 
"I'm sorry, yes." 
She laughed, a little embarrassed. On her left cheek a dimple appeared. 
Apart from her eyes, she had undeniable charm, he thought. Perhaps 
the look in her eyes was the result of some affliction. No matter how 
much make-up she used, she could not conceal the inflamed corners. 
Before going to bed, he decided, he would without fail apply some eye 
medicine too. 
"It doesn't make any difference, but first I would rather like a bath." 
"A bath?" 
"Don't you have one?" 
"I'm terribly sorry, but could you put it off until the day after 
tomorrow?" 
"The day after tomorrow? But I won't be here the day after tomorrow." 
In spite of himself he laughed aloud. 
"Oh?" 
She turned her face away with a drawn-up expression. She was 
disappointed, he supposed, and, of course, with country folk there is no 
attempt at pretense. He ran his tongue several times over his lips with a 
feeling of embarrassment. 
"If you don't have a barji, some water that I could pour over me would 
do just fine. My whole body's covered with sand." 
"I'm sorry, but we don't have more than a bucketful of water either. The 
well is pretty far away." 

---

She looked quite abashed, and he decided to say no more. He was 
soon to realize, unpleasantly, the uselessness of bathing. 
The woman brought in the meal: clam soup with boiled fish. Very much 
a shore meal, it seemed. That was all right^ but as he began to eat she 
opened a large paper umbrella and put it over him. 
"What's that thing for?" He wondered if it were some kind of custom of 
the region. 
"Well, if I don't put this up, the sand will get in your food." 
"How is that?" he said, looking up in surprise at the ceiling, where, 
however, there were no holes at all. 
She followed his eyes to the ceiling. "The sand sifts in everywhere. 
Almost an inch piles up if I don't sweep it up every day." 
"Is the roof faulty?" 
"Yes, pretty much so. But even if the thatching was brand-new, the sand 
would sift in anyway. It's really terrible. It's worse than a wood borer." 
"A wood borer?" 
"An insect that eats holes in wood." 
"That's probably a termite, isn't it?" 
"No, no. It's about this big… with a hard skin." 
"Ah. Well, it's a long-horned saw beetle then." 
"A saw beetle?" 
"Long whiskers and reddish, isn't it?" 
"No, it's sort of bronze-colored and shaped like a grain of rice." 
"I see. Then it's an iridescent beetle." 
"If you let it go on, beams like these rot away to nothing, you know." 

---

"You mean the iridescent beetle?" 
"No, the sand." 
"Why?" 
"It gets in from everywhere. On days when the wind direction is bad, it 
gets up under the roof, and if I didn't sweep it away it would soon pile 
up so heavy that the ceiling boards wouldn't hold it." 
"Hmm. Yes, I can see it wouldn't do to let the sand accumulate in the 
ceiling. But isn't it funny to say that it rots the beams?" 
"No. They do rot." 
"But sand is essentially dry, you know." 
"Anyway, it rots them. If you leave sand on brand-new wooden clogs 
they fall apart in half a month. They're just dissolved, they say, so it 
must be true." 
"I don't understand the reason." 
"Wood rots, and the sand rots with it. I even heard that soil rich enough 
to grow cucumbers came out of the roof boards of a house that had 
been buried under the sand." 
"Impossible!" he exclaimed rudely, making a wry face. He felt that his 
own personal concept of sand had been defiled by her ignorance. "I 
know a little about sand myself. Let me tell you. Sand moves around 
like this all year long. Its flow is its life. It absolutely never stops—
anywhere. Whether in water or air, it moves about free and 
unrestricted. So, usually, ordinary living things are unable to endure life 
in it, and this goes for bacteria too. How shall I put it… sand represents 
purity, cleanliness. Maybe it serves a preservative function, but there is 
certainly no ques tion of its rotting anything. And, what's more, dear 
lady, to begin with, sand is a respectable mineral. It couldn't possibly 
rot away!" 
She stiffened and fell silent. Under the protection of the umbrella which 
she was holding, the man, as if hurried, finished eating without a word. 

---

On the surface of the umbrella so much sand had collected he could 
have written in it with his finger. 
And the damp was unbearable. The sand of course was not damp; it 
was his body that was damp. Above the roof the wind moaned. He 
drew out his cigarettes, and his pocket was full of sand. He had the 
feeling he could taste the bitterness even before he lit one. 
He took an insect out of the bottle of potassium cyanide. Before it 
stiffened he fixed it with pins; at least he could preserve the shape of 
the legs. From the washstand outside came the sound of the woman 
cleaning dishes. Did no one else live in the house? he wondered. 
When she returned she silently began to prepare the bed in a corner of 
the room. If she put his bed here, where in heaven's name did she 
intend to sleep? Naturally, in that inner room beyond the hanging mat. 
Besides these two there didn't seem to be anything that faintly 
resembled a room. But it was a very strange way of doing things—to 
put the guest in the room by the entry and let the hostess sleep in the 
inner one. Or did she have an invalid unable to move sleeping in the 
inner room? he wondered. Maybe. Certainly it would be much more 
natural to assume so. In the first place, one could hardly expect a 
solitary woman to go to much trouble looking after passing travelers. 
"Are there other people…?" 
"What do you mean, 'other people'?" 
"People in your family or…" 
"No, I'm quite alone." The woman seemed to be aware of his thoughts 
and suddenly gave a forced and awkward laugh. "Everything really gets 
so damp because of the sand, even the blankets." 
"Well, what about your husband?" 
"Oh, yes. Last year in the typhoon…" she said, busying herself 
unnecessarily with smoothing and patting down the edges of the 
matting which she had finished spreading out. "Typhoons are terrible 
around here. The sand comes thundering down like a waterfall. Ten or 
twenty feet pile up in a night no matter what you do." 

---

"As much as twenty feet?" 
"At times like that, you can't ever catch up with the sand no matter how 
much you shovel. He ran out with my little girl—she was in middle 
school then—yelling that the chicken houses were in danger. I was too 
busy taking care of the house and had to stay in. When morning finally 
came and the wind died down, I went out to look. There wasn't a trace 
of the chicken houses… or anything else." 
"Were they buried?" 
"Yes, completely." 
"That was awful! Horrible! The sands are frightful." 
Suddenly the lamp began to sputter. 
"It's the sand." 
She got down on all fours and stretched out her arm. Laughing, she 
snapped the lamp wick with her finger. At once it burned brightly again. 
In the same posture she gazed at the flame, smiling that unnatural 
smile. He realized that it was doubtless deliberately done to show off 
her dimple, and unconsciously his body stiffened. He thought it 
especially indecent of her just after she had been speaking of her loved 
ones' death. 
5
"HEY, there! We've brought a shovel and cans for the other one!" 
A clear voice, considering that it came from a distance, broke the 
tension; perhaps they were using a megaphone. And then came the 
sound of something like tin containers striking against one another as 
they fell. The woman rose to answer. 
He had the exasperating feeling that something underhanded was going 
on. 
"What's that? See, there's somebody else after all." 

---

"Oh, for goodness' sake!" She twisted her body as if she had been 
tickled. 
"But somebody just said 'for the other one.'" 
"Hmm. Well, they're referring to you." 
"To me? Why mention me in connection with a shovel…?" 
"Never mind. Don't pay any attention. Really, they're so nosy!" 
"Was there some mistake?" 
However, the woman didn't answer this, and swinging around on her 
knees, she stepped down on the earthen floor. 
"Pardon me, but are you still using the lamp?" 
"Well, I uaven't really finished with it Why? Do you need it out there?" 
"No, this is work I'm used to." 
She put on a straw hat, of the kind used for gardening, and slipped out 
into the darkness. 
Bending his head to one side, the man lit another cigarette. There was 
something definitely suspicious, he felt. He arose quietly and decided 
to peek behind the suspended matting. There was indeed a room, but 
no bed. In its place the sand had swept down in a gentle curve from 
beyond the wall. He shuddered involuntarily and stood rooted to the 
spot. This house was already half dead. Its insides were half eaten 
away by tentacles of ceaselessly flowing sand. Sand, which didn't even 
have a form of its own—other than the mean i/8-mm. diameter. Yet not 
a single thing could stand against this shapeless, destructive power. The 
very fact that it had no form was doubtless the highest manifestation of 
its strength, was it not? 
But he returned to reality at once. Supposing this room could not be 
used. Where in heaven's name did she intend to sleep? He could hear 
her coming and going beyond the board wall. The hands of his wrist 

---

watch pointed to 8:02. What could there be to do, he wondered, at 
such an hour? 
He stepped down to the earthen floor in search of water. A red metallic 
film floated on the thimbleful of liquid re maining in the bottom of the 
water far. But even that was better than enduring the sand in his 
mouth. When he had washed his face in the water and wiped the back 
of his neck, he felt considerably better. 
A chilly draft was blowing along the dirt floor. Probably it was more 
bearable outside. He squeezed through the sliding door, which, stuck in 
the sand, no longer moved, and went out The breeze blowing down 
from the road had indeed become much cooler. The sound of what 
seemed to be the motor of a three-wheeled pickup truck came to him 
on the wind. And when he strained his ears he could hear a number of 
people. Moreover—was it his imagination?—he sensed greater 
animation than during the day. Or was it the sound of the sea? The sky 
was heavy with stars. 
The woman turned when she saw the lamplight Skillfully handling the 
shovel, she was scooping sand into a big kerosene can. Beyond her the 
wall of black sand soared precipitously up and seemed to be bending 
inward on them. It must have been up there that he had walked during 
the day in his search for insects. When two kerosene cans were full, the 
woman carried them, one in each hand, over to where he was. As she 
passed him she raised her eyes. "Sand," she said in a nasal voice. She 
emptied the sand from the kerosene cans near the path in the back 
where the rope ladder hung. Then she wiped away the sweat with the 
end of a towel. The place was already piled high with the sand she had 
hauled over. 
"I'm clearing away the sand." 
"You'll never finish, no matter how long you work at it" 
The next time she passed, she poked him in the side with the end of a 
free finger. He almost let the lamp fall as he started up in surprise. 
Should he keep holding the lamp as he was, or should he put it on the 
ground and return the tickling? He hesitated, caught off guard by the 
unexpected choice he faced. He decided to keep the lamp in his hand, 

---

and with his face set in a grin, which he himself did not know the 
meaning of, he awkwardly and stiffly approached the woman, who had 
begun to shovel again. As he drew near, her shadow filled the whole 
surface of the sand wall. 
"You shouldn't do that, you know," 
she said in a low, breathless voice, 
her back still toward him. "I have six 
cans to go until the lift basket 
comes." 
His expression hardened. It was 
unpleasant to have feelings that he 
had been at pains to check aroused 
to no purpose. Yet, in spite of himself something not to be denied was 
welling up in his veins. The sand which clung to his skin was seeping 
into his veins and, from the inside, undermining his resistance. "Well, 
shall I give you a hand?" 
"Oh, that's all right. It wouldn't be right to have you do anything on the 
very first day." 
"On the first day? Don't worry about such things. I'll only be here 
tonight anyway." 
"Is that so?" 
"I don't lead a life of leisure, you know. Hand me the other shovel. 
Come on." 
"Excuse me, but your shovel is over there." Indeed, under the eaves 
near the entrance a shovel and two kerosene cans with handles were 
lined up to the side. When they had said "for the other one," it was 
most certainly these things that had been tossed down from the road 
above. The preparations were too good, and he had the feeling that 
they had guessed in advance what he would do. But how could they? 
He had not known himself. Anyway, he thought apprehensively, they 
had a pretty low opinion of him. The shaft of the shovel was made of a 
bumpy wood and had a dark sheen from handling. He had already lost 

---

his desire to lend a hand. "Oh! The lift basket is already at the 
neighbors'!" 
She spoke animatedly, seeming not to have noticed his hesitation. Her 
voice was cheerful and contained a note of confidence that had not 
been there before. The human sounds that had been audible for some 
time were suddenly near at hand. A series of short, rhythmic shouts 
was repeated several times, followed by a period of low, continuous 
muttering interspersed with suppressed laughter, and then the shouts 
again. The rhythm of the work suddenly made him feel buoyant. In 
such a simple world it was probably quite normal to let a night's guest 
use a shovel. And there would be something curious about holding 
back. With his heel he made a hollow in the sand, in which he placed 
the lamp so that it would not fall. 
"I suppose it's all right to dig any place, isn't it?" 
"Well… not just any place." 
"Then what about over here?" 
"Yes, but try to dig right down from the cliff wall." 
"Is this the time for clearing away the sand at all the houses?" 
"Yes. The sand is easier to work with at night because it's damp. When 
the sand is dry," she said, looking up toward the sky, "you never know 
when or where it will come crashing down." 
He peered up, and indeed a brow of sand, like drifted snow, bulged out 
from the lip of the cliff. 
"But that's dangerous, isn't it?" 
"It's really quite safe," she said in a laughing tone, different from her 
usual voice. "Look! The mist's beginning to come in." 
"Mist?" 

---

As she spoke the expanse of stars rapidly grew patchy and began to 
fade. A tangled filmy cloud swirled around fitfully where the wall of 
sand met the sky. 
"You see, it's because the sand soaks up a lot of fog. When salty sand is 
full of fog, it gets hard like starch." 
"I can't believe it!" 
"Oh, yes, it's true. When the tide along the beach goes down, even big 
tanks can drive over the sand with no trouble." 
"Amazing!" 
"It's quite true. So that part that sticks out there gets bigger every night 
On days when the wind comes from a bad direction, the sand comes 
down like today, on the umbrella. In the afternoon, when it's good and 
dry, it comes crashing down all at once. And it's the end if it falls in the 
wrong place… where the pillars are weak." 
Her topics of conversation were restricted. Yet once she entered her 
own sphere she suddenly took on a new animation. This might also be 
the way to her heart. He was not particularly interested in what she had 
to say, but her words had a warmth in them that made him think of the 
body concealed beneath the coarse work trousers. 
Then, with all his strength, he repeatedly thrust the dented cutting edge 
of his shovel into the sand at his feet. 
6
WHEN he had finished carrying the kerosene cans over the second 
time, he heard the sound of voices, and on the road above a hand lamp 
flickered. 
The woman spoke rather sharply. 
"It's the lift basket. I've already finished over here. Give me some help 
over there, will you?" For the first time he grasped the meaning of the 
sandbags that lay buried at the top of the ladder: by running the ropes 
around them, the baskets could be raised and lowered. Four men 

---

managed each basket, and there were two or three groups in all. For the 
most part, they appeared to be young men who worked briskly and 
efficiently. By the time the basket of one group was full, the next group 
was already waiting to take over. In six hauls, the sand which had been 
piled up was completely leveled off. 
"Those fellows are amazing!" 
His tone was friendly as he wiped away the sweat with his shirt sleeve. 
The young men, who uttered not a word of ridicule at his helping with 
the sand, appeared to devote themselves energetically to their work. He 
felt well disposed toward them. 
"Yes. In our village we really follow the motto 'Love Your Home.'" 
"What sort of love is that?" 
"It's the love you have for where you live." 
"Great!" 
He laughed, and she laughed with him. But she did not seem to 
understand the reason for her laughter herself. 
From afar came the sound of a three-wheeled truck starting up. 
"Well now, shall we take a rest?" 
"Oh, no. When they finish with one round they come right back again 
with the basket." 
"Oh, let it go. The rest can wait until tomorrow and…" 
He arose unconcerned and began walking toward the earthen floor, but 
she showed no signs of coming along with him. 
"You can't do things that way! We've got to work at least once all 
around the house." 
"What do you mean, 'all around'?" 

---

"Well, we can't let the house be smashed, can we? The sand comes 
down from all sides." 
"But it'll take until morning to do that." 
As though challenged, she turned abruptly and hurried off. She 
apparently intended to return to the base of the cliff and continue her 
work. Quite like the behavior of the beetle, he thought. 
Now that he understood this, he certainly wouldn't be taken in again. 
"I'm dumfounded! Is it like this every night?" 
"The sand never stops. The baskets and the three-wheeler keep going 
the whole night through." 
"
1
suppose they do." And indeed they did. The sand never stopped 
falling. The man was completely at a loss. He was bewildered, rather as 
if he had casually stepped on the tail of a snake that he had thought to 
be small but had turned out to be surprisingly large; by the time he had 
realized this, its head was already threatening him from behind. 
"But this means you exist only for the purpose of clearing away the 
sand, doesn't it?" 
"Yes, but we just can't sneak away at night, you know." 
He was more and more upset. He had no intention of becoming 
involved in such a life. 
"Yes, you can. It would be simple, wouldn't it? You can do anything if 
you want to." 
"No, that wouldn't be right at all." She spoke casually, breathing in 
rhythm with her shoveling. "The village keeps going because we never 
let up clearing away the sand like this. If we stopped, in ten days the 
village would be completely buried. Next it will be the neighbor's turn 
in back. See, there." 
"Very praiseworthy, I'm sure. And do the basket gangs work so hard for 
the same reason?" 

---

"Well, they do get some pay from the town." 
"If they have that much money, why don't they build a more permanent 
hedge of trees against the sand?" 
"It seems to be much cheaper to do it this way… when you figure the 
costs." 
"This way? Is this really a way?" Suddenly a feeling of anger welled up 
in him. He was angry at the things that bound the woman… and at the 
woman who let herself be bound. "Why must you cling so to such a 
village? I really don't understand. This sand is not a trifling matter. 
You're greatly mistaken if you think you can set yourself up against it 
with such methods. It's preposterousl Absurd! I give up. I really give 
up. I have absolutely no sympathy for you." 
Tossing the shovel on the kerosene cans which had been left out, he 
abruptly returned to the room, ignoring the expression on the woman's 
face. 
He spent a sleepless night, turning and tossing. He pricked up his ears, 
sensing the woman's presence. He felt somewhat guilty. Taking such a 
stand in front of her was actually an expression of jealousy at what 
bound her; and was it not also a desire that she should put aside her 
work and come secretly to his bed? Actually, his strong feelings were 
apparently not simply anger at female stupidity. There was something 
more unfathomable. His mattress was getting damper and damper, and 
the sand more and more clammy to his skin. It was all too 
unreasonable, too eerie. There was no need to blame himself for having 
thrown the shovel aside and come in. He did not have to take that 
much responsibility. Besides, the obligations he had to assume were 
already more than enough. In fact; his involvement with sand and his 
insect collecting were, after all, simply ways to escape, however 
temporarily, from his obligations and the inactivity of his life. No matter 
how he tried, he could not sleep. The sound of the woman's 
movements continued without interruption. Again and again the sound 
of the basket drew near, and then receded. If things went on this way 
he would be in no condition for tomorrow's work. The next day he 
would get up at daybreak, he decided, and put the day to good use. The 
more he tried to sleep, the more wide awake he became. His eyes 

---

began to smart; his tears and his blinking seemed to be ineffective 
against the ceaselessly falling sand. He spread out a towel and wrapped 
it over his head. It was difficult to breathe, but it was better this way. 
He tried thinking of something else. When he closed his eyes, a 
number of long lines, flowing like sighs, came floating toward him. They 
were ripples of sand moving over the dunes. The dunes were probably 
burned onto his retina because he had been gazing steadily at them for 
some twelve hours. The same sand currents had swallowed up and 
destroyed flourishing cities and great empires. They called it the 
"sabulation" of the Roman Empire, if he remembered rightly. And the 
village of something or other, which Omar Khayyam wrote of, with its 
tailors and butchers, its bazaars and roadways, entwined like the 
strands of a fish net. How many years of strife and petitioning had been 
necessary to change just one strand! The cities of antiquity, whose 
immobility no one doubted… Yet, after all, they too were unable to 
resist the law of the flowing 1/8-mm. sands. 
Sand… 
Things with form were empty when placed beside sand. The only 
certain factor was its movement; sand was the antithesis of all form. 
However, beyond the thin wall of boards the woman continued 
shoveling as usual. What in heaven's name could she hope to 
accomplish with her frail arms? It was like trying to build a house in the 
sea by brushing the water aside. You floated a ship on water in 
accordance with the properties of water. 
With that thought he was suddenly released from the compulsive 
feeling of oppression that, in some strange manner, the sound of the 
woman's shoveling exerted on him. If a ship floated on water, then it 
would also float on sand. If they could get free from the concept of 
stationary houses, they wouldn't have to waste energy fighting the 
sands. A ship—a house—which flowed along, borne up by the sand… 
shapeless towns and cities. 
Sand, of course, was not a liquid. There was no reason, therefore, to 
expect it to be buoyant. If one were to toss something on it with a lesser 
specific gravity, say a cork stopper, and leave it there, even the cork 
would sink. A boat that would float on sand would have to possess 

---

much different qualities. It could be a house shaped like a barrel, for 
example, which would pitch and toss. Even if it heaved over a little, it 
would shed whatever sand had fallen on it and rise at once to the 
surface. Of course, people would not be able to endure the instability of 
a house that kept revolving all the time. There would have to be a 
double-barrel arrangement on an axis, so that the bottom of the inner 
barrel would always have a fixed point of gravity. The inner one would 
remain steady; only the outer one would turn. A house which would 
move like the pendulum of a great clock… a cradle house… a desert 
ship… 
Villages and towns in constant movement composed of groupings of 
these ships… Without being aware of it, he dropped off to sleep. 
7
HE was awakened by a cock's crow, like the creaking of a rusty swing. 
It was a restless, hangnail awakening. He had the feeling that it was 
barely dawn, but the hands of his wrist watch had already turned to 
11:16. So the color of the sunbeams was actually that of noon. It was 
gloomy here because he was at the bottom of a hole and the sun had 
not yet reached that far. 
Quickly he jumped up. The sand that had accumulated on his face, 
head, and chest fell away with a rustling sound. Around his nose and 
lips sand was encrusted, hardened by perspiration. He scraped it off 
with the back of his hand and cautiously blinked his eyes. Tears welled 
up uncontrollably under his gritty, feverish eyelids. But the tears alone 
were not enough to wash away the sand that had become lodged in the 
moist corners of his eyes. 
He started toward the container on the earthen floor for a little water. 
Suddenly he heard the breathing of the sleeping woman on the other 
side of the sunken hearth and looked over. He swallowed his breath, 
quite forgetting the aching of his eyelids. 
She was stark naked. 
She seemed to float like a blurred shadow before his tear-filled eyes. 
She lay face up on the matting, her whole body, except her head, 

---

exposed to view; she had placed her left hand lightly over her lower 
abdomen, which was smooth and full. The parts that one usually 
covered were completely bare, while the face, which anybody would 
show, was concealed under a towel. No doubt the towel was to protect 
her nose, mouth, and eyes from the sand, but the contrast seemed to 
make the naked body stand out even more. 
The whole surface of her body was covered with a coat of fine sand, 
which hid the details and brought out the feminine lines; she seemed a 
statue gilded with sand. Suddenly a viscid saliva rose from under his 
tongue. But he could not possibly swallow it. Were he to swallow, the 
sand that had lodged between his lips and teeth would spread through 
his mouth. He turned toward the earthen floor and spat. Yet no matter 
how much he ejected he could not get rid of the gritty taste. No matter 
how he emptied his mouth the sand was still there. More sand seemed 
to issue constantly from between his teeth. 
Fortunately the water jar had recently been replenished and was 
brimming full. When he had rinsed his mouth and washed his face he 
felt better. Never before had he been so keenly aware of the marvel of 
water. Water was an inorganic substance like sand, a simple, 
transparent, inorganic substance that adapted to the body more readily 
than any living thing. As he let the water trickle slowly down his throat, 
he imagined stone-eating animals. 
Again he turned and looked toward 
the woman. But he had no desire to 
go any closer. A sand-covered 
woman was perhaps attractive to 
look at but hardly to touch. 
With daylight, the exasperation and 
excitement of the preceding night seemed pure fantasy. Of course, the 
whole thing would be good material for conversation. The man again 
looked around, as if to fix what had already become a memory, and 
hurriedly began to get ready. His shirt and trousers were loaded with 
sand. However, there was no sense worrying about such things. It was 
more difficult to shake all the sand from the fibers of his clothes than to 
get the dandruff off his head. His shoes, too, were buried in the sand. 
He wondered if he should say something to the woman before he left. 

---

But, on the other hand, it would only embarrass her to be awakened. 
Anyway, what should he do about paying her for the night's lodging? 
Perhaps it would be better to stop on the way back through the village 
and give the old man from the cooperative the money—the one who 
had brought him here the day before. Stealthily he went out. 
The sun was boiling mercury, poised at the edge of the sand cliff. Little 
by little it was beginning to heat the bottom of the hole. He hastily 
turned his eyes away from the intense glare. In the next instant he had 
already forgotten it. He simply stared at the facade of the sand wall. 
It was unbelievable! The rope ladder had vanished from the place it 
had been the night before. The marker bags, half buried by the sand, 
were perfectly visible. There was no mistake, he remembered the spot. 
He wondered: Had the ladder alone been swallowed up by the sand? 
He rushed to the wall and sank his arms into the sand, groping for it. 
The sand gave way, unresisting, and ran down. However, he wasn't 
trying to find a needle in a haystack; if he did not succeed with the first 
try, he never would, no matter how much he searched. Stifling his rising 
apprehension, he looked again in blank amazement at the abruptness 
of the slope. 
Wasn't there some spot where it could be scaled? he wondered. He 
circled the house two or three times, looking. If he climbed up on the 
roof of the house, the distance to the rim of the hole would be shortest 
on the north side, toward the sea, but it would still be over thirty feet 
And, what was more, the wall there was steeper than anywhere else. 
The massive brow of sand which hung down seemed exceedingly 
dangerous. 
The west wall seemed to be a comparatively gentle incline, having a 
curved surface like the inside of a cone. At an optimistic estimate it was 
probably around fifty or even forty-five degrees. Cautiously he took a 
probing step. With each step forward he slid back a half step. Even so, 
it looked as though he could make it with a very great effort. 
Things went as he had expected for the first five or six steps. And then 
his feet began to sink into the sand. Before he knew whether he was 
making progress or not, he was buried up to his knees and seemed to 
have lost all power of movement. Then he attempted frantically to 

---

scramble up on all fours. The burning sand scorched his palms. Sweat 
poured from his whole body. Sand and sweat blinded him. Soon he had 
cramps in his legs and was unable to move them at all. 
He stopped struggling and caught his breath, assuming he had already 
covered a considerable distance, but when he opened his eyes, 
squinting, he was amazed to find that he had come not even five yards. 
What exactly had he accomplished by all this effort? he wondered. 
Moreover, the incline he had climbed seemed to be far steeper than 
when he had looked at it from below. And above where he stood, it 
looked even worse. Although he had wanted to climb up, he seemed to 
have spent all his energy simply burrowing into the sand wall. The 
brow of sand just above his face blocked his path. In desperation he 
tried to struggle on a little further, but the instant he reached out for the 
sand over his head his footing gave way. 
He was spewed out from the sand and flung to the bottom of the hole. 
His left shoulder made a sound like the splitting of chopsticks. But he 
did not notice any pain. For some time fine sand rustled gently down 
the face of the cliff as if to ease the hurt he had received; then it 
stopped. Anyway, his injury was an exceedingly small one. 
It was still too soon to be frightened. 
He stifled a desire to scream and slowly crept back to the hut. The 
woman was still sleeping in the same position. He called her, gently at 
first and then in a louder and louder voice. Instead of answering, she 
turned over as though annoyed. 
The sand ran from her body, revealing her bare arms and shoulders, the 
nakedness of her flanks and loins. But there were more important 
things to think of. Going to her, he tore the towel from her head. Her 
face was covered with blotches, and, compared with her body, which 
had been encased in sand, it was gruesomely raw. The strange 
whiteness of her face the night before in the lamplight must surely have 
been produced by a powder. Now the white stuff had rubbed away, 
leaving bald patches that gave the impression of a cheap cutlet not 
cooked in batter. With surprise he realized that the white stuff was 
perhaps real wheat flour. 

---

Finally she half opened her eyes, seeming to be dazzled by the light. 
Seizing her shoulders and shaking her, the man spoke rapidly and 
imploringly. 
"Say, the ladder's gone! Where's the best place to climb out of here, for 
heaven's sake? You can't get out of a place like this without a ladder." 
She gathered up the towel with a nervous gesture, and with unexpected 
energy slapped her face with it two or three times and then, completely 
turning her back to him, crouched with her knees doubled beneath her 
and her face to the floor. Was it a bashful movement? This was hardly 
the place. The man let out a shout as if a dam had given way. 
"This is no joking matter! I don't know what I'll do if you don't get that 
ladder out. I'm in a hurry! Where in God's name did you hide it? I've 
had enough of your pranks. Give it here. At once!" 
But she did not answer. She remained in the same position, simply 
shaking her head left and right. 
He stiffened. His vision blurred, his breathing faltered and almost 
stopped; he abruptly realized the pointlessness of his questioning. The 
ladder was of rope. A rope ladder couldn't stand up by itself. Even if he 
got his hands on it there was no possibility of setting it up from below—
which meant that the woman had not taken it down, but someone else 
had taken it away from the road above. His unshaven face, smudged 
with sand, suddenly looked miserable. 
The woman's actions and her silence took on an unexpected and 
terrible meaning. He refused to believe it, yet in his heart he knew his 
worst fears had come true. The ladder had probably been removed with 
her knowledge, and doubtless with her full consent. Unmistakably she 
was an accomplice. Of course her posture had nothing to do with 
embarrassment; it was the posture of a sacrificial victim, of a criminal 
willing to accept any punishment. He had been lured by the beetle into 
a desert from which there was no escape—like some famished mouse. 
He sprang up and, hurrying to the door, looked out again. The wind 
had risen. The sun was almost directly over the hole. Heat waves, 
glistening as if alive, rose from the burning sand. The sand cliff towered 

---

higher and higher above him; its omniscient face seemed to tell his 
muscles and bones the meaninglessness of resistance. The hot air 
penetrated his skin. The temperature began to rise higher. 
As if he had gone mad, he began to yell—he did not know what, his 
words were without meaning. He simply shouted with all the strength 
of his voice, as though he could make the bad dream come to its 
senses, excuse itself for its blundering, and whisk him from the bottom 
of the hole. But his voice, unaccustomed to shouting, was fragile and 
wan. Moreover, his words were absorbed by the sand and blown by the 
wind, and there was no way of knowing how far they reached. 
Suddenly a horrible sound interrupted him. As the woman had 
predicted the night before, the brow of sand on the north side had lost 
its moisture and collapsed. The whole house seemed to let out a soulful 
shriek, as if mortally wounded, and a gray blood began to drop down 
with a rustling sound from the new gap between the eaves and the wall. 
The man began to tremble, his mouth full of saliva. It was as if his own 
body had been crushed. 
This entire nightmare could not be happening. It was too outlandish. 
Was it permissible to snare, exactly like a mouse or an insect, a man 
who had his certificate of medical insurance, someone who had paid 
his taxes, who was employed, and whose family records were in order? 
He could not believe it. Perhaps there was some mistake; it was bound 
to be a mistake. There was nothing to do but assume that it was a 
mistake. 
First of all, there was no point at all in doing what they had done to 
him. He was not a horse or a cow; they could not force him to work 
against his will. Since he was useless as manpower, there was no sense 
in shutting him up within these walls of sand. It simply inflicted a 
dependent on the woman. 
But somehow he was not sure. Looking at the sand wall that encircled 
him as if to strangle him, he was unpleasantly reminded of his 
miserable failure to scale it. He had simply floundered about. A feeling 
of impotence paralyzed his whole body. The village was already 
corroded by the sand, common everyday conventions were not 
observed; perhaps it had become a world apart For that matter, if he 

---

wanted to be suspicious, there was plenty to be suspicious about. For 
example, if it was true that the kerosene cans and the shovel had been 
prepared especially for him, it was also true that the rope ladder had 
been removed without his knowing it. Furthermore, the fact that the 
woman had not offered a word of explanation, that she had silently 
accepted everything with a strange submissive-ness, lent substance to 
the danger in the situation. The woman's remark the night before, 
intimating that his stay was to be a long one, had perhaps not been a 
mere slip of the tongue. 
Then there was a small avalanche of sand. 
Apprehensively, he returned to the hut. He went directly to the woman, 
who had remained crouching. He raised his left hand threateningly. His 
eyes glittered as he stood there agonizing. But halfway through the 
gesture, his arm, which he had raised with such purpose, suddenly 
collapsed. Perhaps he would feel better if he slapped the naked 
woman. But wouldn't this be just the part he was expected to play? She 
was waiting for it. Punishment inflicted, in other words, would mean 
that the crime had been paid for. 
He turned his back on her, sank down on the ramp around the raised