One could not do without repetition in life, like the beating of the heart, but it was also true that the beating of the heart was not all there was to life. ( )

Niki Jumpei, an amateur entomologist, seeks a rare beetle in the desert. The day ends, and he is lost in the sand dunes. In desperation, he agrees to assistance from another man who finds the entomologist shelter for the night. He is taken to a sand cliff from which he is lowered by rope ladder to a small house, partially covered by sand and inhabited by a lone woman. In the morning, the rope is gone but the woman remains.

The story was terrifying and engrossing all at once. It had the essence of one person being alone, yet not being alone; disappearing and yet not disappearing. Thinking of a person placed in a captive situation, it made me question whether it would be better to remain aloof or to befriend a captor. Presenting just as many questions as answers, this book turned out to be an incredible mind trip. I kept on trying to figure out what it all meant, whether it was a metaphor for anything at all or just a bizarre tale meant for entertainment. It was a story, complete with perfectly situated pen-and-ink drawings, about the meaning of being held captive and containing sequences of events and scenery which made for surreal and fascinating reading. ( )

Non è la sabbia che scorre, ma forse lo stesso scorrere è la sabbia. Non riesco a spiegarmi bene.

(109)

La respirazione, il camminare, la peristalsi dei visceri, i programmi quotidiani di ricerca, le domeniche ogni sette giorni, gli esami di fine stagione ogni quattro mesi, non solo non arrivano a darci la pace, ma ci incitano nuovamente al tran tran della vita. Di giorno in giorno, poi, si aumenta la quantità del fumo, e, dopo i sogni in cui si cerca affannosamente, con una donna dalle unghie sporche, un posto tranquillo e nascosto agli occhi dei curiosi, infine ci si accorge di essere intossicati, e poi, ricordandosi a un tratto del firmamento sostenuto dai cicli dei movimenti ellittici estremamente monotoni, e delle dune comandate dalla lunghezza d'onda di 1/8 di mm, improvvisamente ci si rende conto della situazione reale.

(224)

E resto sempre perplesso dal fatto che Sisifo ritrovi sempre il masso ad aspettarlo... ( )

An existentialist Japanese novel about a man getting stuck in a village, buried by sand.

Extremely atmospheric, with the sand almost being its own character. The level of detail it is written really allows for the reader to get absorbed into the oppressive atmosphere of the sand. You can almost feel the sand stuck to your sweaty body, or taste it in your mouth. The level of detail really added a layer of realism to the story that otherwise read like some sort of hazy fever dream.

My only gripe is the main character felt like an incel at times, and some parts felt a bit "rapey" and over sexualized. Generally I don't mind unlikable characters, so it wasn't a huge deal for me, but was just a bit uncomfortable at times. ( )

Such a strange book about the prisons we live our lives in, those self-constructed and imposed by others, what we'll trade our freedom for, and how hard (or not) we'll fight to regain it. At times an incredibly frustrating book, but always a great book. I sometimes felt so violent reading this, but then would think, "What sand am I digging? Day after day?" Thinking about this book too much can be truly dangerous. ( )