The Boy in the Earth

by Fuminori Nakamura Narrated by Brian Nishii

Overview

Fuminori Nakamura's Akutagawa Prize-winner plunges us into the depths of a young man's winding, troubled psyche. An unnamed taxi driver in Tokyo has experienced a rupture in his everyday life. He cannot stop daydreaming of suicide, envisioning himself returning to the earth in what soon become terrifying blackout episodes. His live-in girlfriend, Sayuko, is in a similarly bad phase, surrendering to alcoholism to escape the memory of her miscarriage. He meets with the director of the orphanage where he once lived, and must confront awful memories of his past and an abusive family before determining what to do next.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

02/27/2017
The cynical and disengaged unnamed narrator of this enigmatic novel from Nakamura (The Gun) has quit his sales job at a company that produces educational materials and now works as a taxi driver in Tokyo. For no obvious reason, he picks a fight with a group of motorcyclists and, predictably, ends up badly beaten. He gives Sayuko, a former work colleague and the one person he regularly interacts with, no chance to express sympathy; they go to bed, but she shows no emotion during intercourse. Later, the narrator gets a jolt from news of the parents who abandoned him 20 years earlier: his mother has died, but his father is still alive. He can’t help wondering whether he could have led a different life if he had been given reason to believe that his parents actually hoped he would grow up to be a good person. Bit by bit, Nakamura fills in some of the details of his lead’s backstory, making a character who will initially seem alien to most readers less so. The action builds to a devastating conclusion that explains the title. (Apr.)

From the Publisher

Praise for The Boy in the Earth

"Absorbing . . . Just what abuse the narrator suffered as a youth is one of the puzzles to be solved (in horrific detail) by The Boy in the Earth. Another mystery is whether he will find a nonfatal way to break out of his Kafkaesque memory palace. By the book’s end, the reader comes to care about the second answer as much as the first."
—Tom Nolan, The Wall Street Journal

"Although many orders of magnitude darker, Nakamura may be the spiritual heir to Kenzaburō Ōe. This is existential literature at its compelling and nauseating best... His work isn’t merely noir as titillation; it’s the hideous truth below the surface, and he is one of the most vital writers at work today in Japan."
—The Japan Times

"[Nakamura] has demonstrated time and again, and does so again here, that he is one of the best crime novelist working today."
—PANK Magazine

"Nakamura is known for the dark nihilism of his fiction, but in this contemplation of whether even the most damaged of lives can be saved, there is a final ray of hope."
—Booklist

"Told in an intimate first-person narrative, Nakamura’s novel, translated for the first time into English, considers the long-term repercussions of abuse and a life on the fringe of society...this well-written sparse character study in psychological obsession will appeal to readers who like their fiction dark."
—Library Journal

"The Boy in the Earth offers readers a darkly philosophic musing on violence, history, purpose and what it means to be alive, told in elegant prose."
—Shelf Awareness

"The Zen master, the true Buddha of Noir, is the dark genius that is Fuminori Nakamura."
—This is Horror

"A thriller in the same elevated sense of Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment or Camus' The Stranger."
—Reviewing the Evidence

"Haunting . . . The Boy in the Earth plumbs some seriously dark territory."
—Reading Matters

Praise for Fuminori Nakamura

Japan Objects' Best Japanese Authors of All Time

“Crime fiction that pushes past the bounds of genre, occupying its own nightmare realm . . . Guilt or innocence is not the issue; we are corrupted, complicit, just by living in society. The ties that bind, in other words, are rules beyond our making, rules that distance us not only from each other but also from ourselves.”
—Los Angeles Times

“A suspenseful study of obsession . . . Nakamura’s noir story, translated by Allison Markin Powell, is about liberation . . . Love, even illicit love, has a way of bringing out the best or the worst in a person.”
—The New York Times

“Few protagonists in modern crime fiction are as alienated as those in the challenging, violent, grotesque tales of Japanese author Fuminori Nakamura . . . Yurika’s struggle to escape her vexed fate elevates this shocker well above the lurid.”
—The Wall Street Journal

“This slim, icy, outstanding thriller, reminiscent of Muriel Spark and Patricia Highsmith, should establish Fuminori Nakamura as one of the most interesting Japanese crime novelists at work today.”
—USA Today

Product Details

BN ID:	2940171084578
Publisher:	Recorded Books, LLC
Publication date:	04/25/2017
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

1
 
In the flood of headlights surrounding me, I saw that there was no escape. The motorcycles were just gunning their engines and watching me as I stood there, helpless to do anything. But I doubted that this standoff would go on for much longer. I figured soon these guys would get off their bikes and beat me with the iron pipes they were holding until they were satisfied.
     Fear had made my legs go unpleasantly weak, but for some time now, I had been distracted by the thought that I must have been expecting all of this to happen. Until just a little while ago, I had been aimlessly wandering around the late night streets. With no destination, smoking as I walked, it was as if I had been searching for the city’s darkest places, bidden by the poorly lit streets. I had encountered these guys in front of a vending machine beside a park. They had stopped their bikes and were still sitting astride them, drinking juice, munching away and smoking cigarettes like they were drunk. At first, they hadn’t paid attention to me. They had been cheerfully howling with laughter—that is, until I threw my cigarette butt toward them.
     I did what I did on purpose—with clear intention. It was not unconscious, nor was it for no reason at all—I was completely cognizant and aware of my actions. It was something I had to do, show these dregs of society what I thought of them, hanging out in a place like this. Those were my thoughts at the time. But now, awash in the light of their motorcycles, I could not fathom why I had felt that way.
     There was no question, though, that here I found myself in a predicament. I had done something stupid without thinking of the consequences—that was all there was to it—but this kind of thing happened to me with some regularity. Just the day before yesterday, a car was making a right-hand turn against the light and, for no reason other than to demonstrate how dangerous it was, instead of trying to avoid it I deliberately stopped in the middle the crosswalk, right in front of the car so that the driver had no choice but to slam on the brakes. What both these instances had in common was that the direct result of my own actions put me in danger—it was my own behavior that thrust me into unfavorable conditions.
      “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” A guy with a shaved head who was most likely the leader got off his bike, his eyes unfocused. The others were still revving their engines, like in a kind of ritual. When the leader raised the iron pipe, his expression was hollow, as if he had no interest in what might happen to my body when he brought the pipe down. The blow landed on my side with an unexpectedly intense pain that knocked the wind out of me, and a moment later an unbearable jolt of searing heat coursed through my entire body. I found it difficult to breathe—I barely managed to inhale through my constricted throat. A frail, inside-out voice leaked from my lips. The shivers of pain and fear that wracked my body would not stop. I tried to stand up, but my ankle and knee joints were so stiff they didn’t seem to work.
      “Your money, all of it. And then, right . . . t-ten more of those and we’ll let you go!” he said and, as if waiting to see what I would do, he lit a cigarette. All I had on me at the time were a few coins, all of them probably didn’t even add up to a thousand yen. Still, I shook my head. I tried to speak, but my face felt like it was on fire, and the next thing I knew, I was lying facedown on the ground. It felt cool against my cheeks, and the blood flowing from my gums had leaked out of my mouth in a trickle. I thought they might have lost interest by now, but the situation remained unchanged. I passed out, but just briefly—there was only a momentary gap in my consciousness.
      “I guess it’s too much trouble to kill him.”
      “We can’t let him get away with this.”
      “Well, there’s no one here to see, and nobody knows us here either.”
     At some point the sound of the engines had stopped. I could tell that several of the bikers were looking down at me. As I caught the scent of earth, I was seized by a strange sensation. My chest was buzzing with an unfamiliar feeling—it was deep within, though I was definitely aware of it—a feeling stirred by an anxiety that I never could have anticipated. This fear seemed to overwhelm my entire body. A faint smile cracked across my lips. If they kept kicking me, if they beat me to a pulp, I might vanish into nothing, I might be absorbed by the earth, deep underground. It was terrifying. I felt robbed of my strength, and my heart raced painfully, although the twitching that ran up and down my spine was not unpleasant. Little by little, this fearful trembling was transforming into something else entirely, like a feeling of anticipation. Despite my terror, there was the definite sensation that I was patiently standing by. I experienced a moment of skepticism, but then it no longer mattered. I worried about when these guys, all of them together, would start swinging their iron pipes at me again. I had the illusion of my body falling down, down, from a very high place. I worried about the impact when I hit bottom . . .
      “Hey, wait a sec. What if while we had this guy, what if we called up a girl he knows on his cell phone and got her to come out here?”
      “Sounds good, since we missed our chance before, right?”
      “Right.”
      “Cool. Yeah, let’s do it.”
     I felt a crushing sense of disappointment. “What’s wrong with me?” I cried out nonsensically. They were quiet for a moment but soon they all erupted in laughter. I felt a pain in my side, and as my head was pushed down, my mouth filled with earth. They felt around in the pockets of my pants. A quiet disappointment spread through me. All they took was the coin wallet I was carrying, my cigarettes, and a lighter.
      “Loser. Hey, this guy’s a loser.”
      “We should kill him.”
      “Wait, no, there’s no point in killing him.”
      “Shut up, what do you care?”
      “Hey, hang on a minute. If you kill him, then we’re really fucked.”
     As they kicked me all over, I drifted out of awareness. Illuminated by the headlights of their motorcycles, I was a mere worm as I let them beat me mercilessly. I was in a state of excitement. I knew that was not an appropriate way to feel in this situation. I don’t mean that I experienced a masochistic pleasure from the pain of being kicked. Their attack was relentless; I felt only intense pain. Neither was there any intoxication from feeling worthless. How can I put it?—I was definitely waiting for something yet to come. I felt certain that the thing I was waiting for—whatever it was—was there. It was still unclear to me. But what loomed in my mind was that I may have been expecting it all along.
      “There’s something strange about the noises this guy’s making,”
      “He’s so funny, look at him.”
     Their voices sounded far away, yet they didn’t let up. I felt an especially hard blow, and my mind began to sway to a strange rhythm. I felt as though my being was about to fracture—my vision blurred, and as an unbearable nausea came over me, I sputtered out vomit. But I did not want to lose consciousness yet. If I blacked out, that would be the end. Whatever it was would never arrive. This was my thought as I opened my eyes to feel the pain. If I could go on like this, maybe I could transform myself. But into what, I had no idea. I let out a scream. Even though it was my own voice, the cry that echoed in my head sounded unfamiliar.

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