Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

Chapter 73 Love Letter

"Kitahara-kun! It's me, Sato!"

The moment the call connected, Editor-in-Chief Sato's voice trembled slightly with extreme excitement: "Just now, I received an urgent fax from the editorial department of Kawade Shobo's 'Literature' magazine!"

"They unprecedentedly bypassed the usual commissioning process and directly invited us to contribute to a special issue!"

"This is simply unheard of in circles like 'Literature and Art' magazine, which prides itself on its exquisite taste!"

Editor-in-Chief Sato gave Kitahara Iwao no chance to speak, and kept talking like a machine gun: "Moreover, the theme is set very high, it is 'A Relay from Showa to Heisei'."

"Kitahara-kun, 'Bungei' magazine always has a keen sense of trends. They must have figured out that 'Confessions' would definitely stir up a huge social emotion. They're using you as a trendsetter for the new era!"

"The Literature and Art Magazine?"

Upon hearing this, Kitahara Iwa nodded slightly, a glimmer of light flashing in his deep eyes.

Anyone in the Japanese literary world would know the significance of this name.

As a flagship journal under Kawade Shobo Shinsha, it is comparable to "Shincho," "Gunzo," and "Bungakukai."

Along with Subaru, it is known as one of the "Five Great Literary Classics" of Japanese pure literature.

For more than half a century, this publication has stood out from the crowd with its extremely rigorous aesthetic standards and avant-garde literary stance.

It is not only the cornerstone upon which countless literary giants established their historical status, but also one of the most difficult peaks to climb in the traditional world of pure literature.

Being able to publish an article in "Literature" represents an ultimate recognition that transcends the boundaries between popular and serious literature.

In the past, securing a place in a special issue that marked a significant leap forward in history was a privilege almost exclusively enjoyed by a few of the most illustrious Showa-era literary figures.

Hearing Kitahara Iwa's response, Editor-in-Chief Sato took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing his excited tone, and revealed a calmness and seriousness unique to senior editors as he said, "However, Kitahara-kun, the more exceptional the treatment, the more dangerous it often is, a double-edged sword."

"While the platform of 'Literature and Art' can certainly allow you to truly step into the core circle of the traditional literary world, it also means that your writing will be thoroughly placed under a microscope and subjected to the most stringent scrutiny."

"After all, the fame brought by 'Confessions' was too great."

"There are countless eyes watching you now, including those judges who didn't vote for you at the Naoki Prize. They're all waiting for a flaw in your talent that will be exposed. This time, you must bring out all your strength and deliver a truly solid piece."

"If the quality of your feature articles doesn't match your current reputation, then your fame will immediately turn into a poison that backfires."

"Those traditional writers will definitely seize on this and label you as a flash-in-the-pan gimmick writer."

"So, Kitahara-kun, are you absolutely certain?"

"If I didn't have a brilliant idea, I'd rather play the villain and decline the invitation on your behalf to protect your current reputation."

Hearing these words from Editor-in-Chief Sato, Kitahara Iwa felt a warmth in his heart.

It must be said that Editor-in-Chief Sato was indeed acting in his own self-interest.

If it were any other editor who was eager for quick success and instant benefits, they would probably have been blinded by the prestigious reputation of "Literature and Art" magazine and recklessly forced themselves to accept the invitation, gambling away a fortune.

But Editor-in-Chief Sato would rather be the "villain" who offends the literary world than compromise his own reputation.

"I understand your concerns, Editor-in-Chief Sato."

Gathering his thoughts, Kitahara Iwa slowly spoke into the microphone.

At this moment, Kitahara Iwa's tone was still as gentle as a spring breeze, but because of the emotion he had just experienced, it became more solemn: "But since 'Literature and Art' has made such an extraordinary invitation, there is naturally no reason for you to go to the front to take the bullet for me."

"Since they need an article that spans from the Showa era to the Heisei era, then I will write a story that they can't even find a reason to criticize, as a farewell to the old era."

"As for those traditional judges who are holding microscopes and waiting to see me make a fool of myself —"

Kitahara Iwa chuckled and continued, "As long as the quality of the work is overwhelming enough, any criticism is nothing more than an ant trying to shake a tree."

Faced with Kitahara Iwa's confident words, Editor-in-Chief Sato, though still wanting to persuade Kitahara Iwa to reconsider, somehow ended up saying, "Fine. Since you've made your decision, I won't say anything more."

"During this time, our Shincho-sha will clear away all external obstacles for you."

At this point, Editor-in-Chief Sato paused, then switched back to his editorial rigor and efficiency: "Also, Kitahara-kun, the 'Literature' magazine requires a first draft within half a month to meet the layout deadline for the special issue, so the timeframe is very tight."

Before hanging up, Editor-in-Chief Sato gave one last, concerned reminder.

"Half a month is enough. Thank you for your hard work during this time, Editor-in-Chief Sato."

Kitahara Iwa nodded, and after a few brief pleasantries, he gently put down the phone receiver.

With a click, the room returned to the tranquility unique to the early morning.

Kitahara Iwa turned around and slowly walked to the desk by the window and sat down.

The rising sun shone through the glass, casting a slightly white glow on the original manuscript paper on the table.

Then Kitahara Iwa picked up his usual fountain pen and twirled it gently between his fingers.

Faced with this highly significant invitation from the special issue of "Literature and Art," Kitahara Iwao could not be careless in the slightest. He had to carefully select a highly substantial article from the masterpieces of later generations.

At that moment, a flash of inspiration struck me.

Kitahara Iwa thought of Haruki Murakami's masterpiece short story, "Honey Pie."

In this work with strong metafictional elements, the protagonist, a novelist, vows to stop writing cold stories and instead decides to write heartwarming works in order to protect the daughter of the woman he loves.

In some ways, this is a perfect reflection of Kitahara Iwa's current predicament.

However, just as the pen tip was about to touch the paper, Kitahara Iwa's hand was suspended in mid-air.

After a brief moment of sentimentality, Kitahara Iwa's brows furrowed slightly.

Kitahara Iwao calmly examined the internal logic of "Honey Pie".

The core driving force behind the powerful impact of "Honey Pie" stems from the massive earthquake that followed and the resulting social trauma and profound sense of nihilism.

But what time is it now?

It is now 1989, the first year of the Heisei era.

Outside the window, Tokyo was at the height of its bubble economy, and the entire Japanese society was immersed in a near-manic, materialistic intoxication.

In this era, if such trauma literature based on grand disasters is rashly introduced, readers will not only fail to resonate with it, but will also experience a serious sense of temporal dislocation and alienation.

Thinking of this, Kitahara Iwa moved his pen slightly and gently crossed out the three words "Honey Pie" on the manuscript paper.

Japan is currently immersed in the frenzy of the bubble economy, and the grand and distant traumas are unlikely to resonate with people in this era.

To tear away this glittering facade, we must look into the true mire beneath the surface of this prosperity.

Following this line of thought, a short story that is more in line with the current social context naturally came to mind.

Jiro Asada's "Love Letter".

The overall structure of the story quickly took clear shape in Kitahara Iwao's mind:

The male protagonist, Goro Takano, is a low-level thug in Shinjuku's Kabukicho district who makes a living by exploiting women. He is selfish and numb.

The female protagonist, Byakuran, is a foreigner who smuggles herself to Japan to sell her body in order to raise money for her family's medical expenses back home.

In Tokyo, a city inflated by a bubble economy and where everyone is chasing wealth, two marginalized individuals from the lowest rungs of society are bound together by a sham marriage agreement used to obtain visas.

From beginning to end, this couple in name never even met once.

Not long after, Bai Lan died alone in a foreign land, exhausted and suffering from illness.

Goro, as her legal husband, embarked on a journey to claim her belongings, full of grievances.

It was among those meager belongings that he discovered a love letter written to him in broken Japanese, written in neat and tidy handwriting.

The letter contained no resentment towards the suffering, but rather the purest gratitude of a woman in dire straits to her nominal husband whom she had never met—thank you for giving her the opportunity to stay in Japan, earn money, and save her family.

In Kitahara Iwa's vision, the story culminates in a crowded tram on the way home.

That scum of society, long accustomed to coldness and betrayal, clutched the cheap urn containing ashes tightly under the indifferent gazes of the surrounding passengers, reading the letter riddled with typos, and finally broke down in a loud wail.

This is not just a tragedy about the underprivileged.

Kitahara Iwao knew very well that in this era where even literature unconsciously caters to superficiality, a work that strips away all fancy techniques and touches people's hearts with just the glimmer of humanity possesses an undeniable weight.

In the literary landscape of later generations, the collection of short stories, "Railroad Man," to which this short story belongs, unanimously won the 117th Naoki Prize.

Its author, Jiro Asada, is thus affectionately and respectfully known by countless readers as the "tearjerker magician of the Heisei era."

At this moment, Kitahara Iwa recalled the heartfelt admiration that later literary critics had for this work: "It bloomed the noblest and purest flower in the dirtiest swamp."

"It abandons pretentious narratives and melts the indifference in the hearts of modern city dwellers with the most primal emotions."

This is a work that "can make all the tired adult men in Japan shed tears without restraint on a crowded train."

It proved to the world that true literature does not need the endorsement of grand narratives; a mere act of kindness between the lowest ants in dire straits is enough to evoke a soul-stirring resonance.

Kitahara Iwa gently exhaled, completely suppressing the slight ripple in his heart.

Then Kitahara Iwa picked up his pen and held it with his wrist suspended, his gaze as calm as still water.

Then, in the very center of the brand-new manuscript paper, he wrote two words with gentle yet unwavering determination:

"love letter".