Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

Chapter 74: Does Kitahara Iwa deserve to be published in "Literature"?

As night falls, the view outside the window is of Tokyo at the height of its bubble economy in 1989.

The neon lights illuminated the city's night sky as if it were daytime, and the dazzling noise and revelry drifted faintly through the window cracks on the night breeze.

Under the lamplight, Kitahara Iwa's expression was as serene as an old monk in meditation.

In writing "Love Letter", Kitahara Iwao deliberately toned down all his previous skills and sharpness.

There are no complicated suspense plots or deliberate sentimentality; instead, there is an extreme restraint that is almost like a simple sketch.

The pen moved smoothly across the manuscript paper, without piling up any fancy words, yet in the very first paragraph of the novel, it accurately depicted that biting, rough feeling.

"The rain in Shinjuku's Kabukicho always carries a sour smell of vomit and cheap perfume."

"Goro Takano stood at the entrance of the narrow alley and lit a crumpled cigarette."

"In this era of madness throughout Japan, his life was worth only 500,000 yen."

"That was a year ago, the price he paid for selling his household registration to a woman he'd never even seen before, for a sham marriage."

"And he squandered the money he had saved to buy his life in just three days at the pachinko parlor."

In just a few lines, the image of a vulgar, selfish, and apathetic pimp from the bottom rungs of society, as well as the dirtiest corner of this bustling metropolis, leaps off the page like a black and white film.

Time slips away quietly as the pen flows from its tip.

Until the plot finally progressed to the end of the entire story.

Goro, a cold-blooded scoundrel who had lived his whole life, sat on a crowded train on his way home, clutching Byakuran's cheap urn, and with trembling hands opened the suicide note among the belongings.

At this moment, Kitahara Iwa's pen paused slightly.

Then, in an awkward tone, as if he had just learned Japanese—half-baked yet incredibly neat—he wrote down the original text of the letter: "Mr. Goro Takano: Nice to meet you. I am Byakuran."

"Thank you so much. Because of Mr. Goro, I was able to stay in Japan to work and send money to my sick family."

"The doctor said I was going to die soon. But I wasn't scared at all."

"Because I know that I am not alone in this unfamiliar city. I still have a gentle husband like Goro."

"Goro, I really want to see you again. If there really is a next life, please let me be your true wife."

"Bai Lan's Last Words"

There is no superfluous literary embellishment or didacticism.

Against the backdrop of the cold, numb, and mundane atmosphere at the beginning, these few lines of simple, clumsy yet incredibly pure last words naturally evoke a real weight that makes one's throat tighten.

In the last paragraph of the original manuscript, Kitahara Iwao wrote the ending of the entire story: "In the crowded train carriage, the man who had long been accustomed to betrayal and a life of scum clutched tightly this love letter with misspelled words that began with 'First Meeting' and ended with 'Real Wife'."

"Amidst the strange looks from the surrounding passengers, he clutched the urn tightly and wailed like a child who had lost everything."

After drawing the final period, Kitahara Iwa gently capped his pen, leaned back in his chair, and gazed at the stack of manuscripts covered in writing on the table.

The neon lights outside the window continued to flash tirelessly, while inside the room, only the raw and authentic aftertaste of the story remained, slowly settling in the quiet air.

This manuscript is finished.

However, during the few days that Kitahara Iwa was working on his love letter behind closed doors, the news that the magazine "Literature" had invited him to publish a special issue eventually spread within the literary circle.

The news immediately caused quite a stir in the publishing industry.

As a major force in Japanese pure literature and a publication with extremely high standards, Bungei magazine surprisingly extended an olive branch to a young author who had just been nominated for the Naoki Prize and was labeled as a "popular bestselling novelist."

This unconventional move undoubtedly touched a nerve with many traditional literati.

In the eyes of those self-important old-school writers, a seat in the special issue of "Literature and Art" should have been an unparalleled honor belonging only to their circle of pure literature.

This honor, however, has now been bestowed upon a popular writer who made his name by writing crime and suspense novels, bypassing everyone else.

A strong sense of disparity and resentment welled up beneath the surface.

But these self-proclaimed intellectuals would never openly admit that they were jealous of a fledgling newcomer who had obtained such top-notch publishing resources.

They skillfully packaged their private bitterness and indignation into a deep sorrow over the defilement of the pure literature bastion.

Following this seemingly legitimate sentiment, those conservatives who had harbored resentment towards the explosive popularity of "Confessions" as early as the Naoki Prize selection period finally found the perfect reason to launch an attack.

Among them, the Kyoto faction, led by Nijo Tadashi, reacted the fastest.

They not only spearheaded the attack, but also astutely realized that if Kitahara Iwao revealed even the slightest weakness in this purely literary challenge, it would be a legitimate opportunity to tear off his "genius" halo.

This is a golden opportunity to bring this literary outcast back to the bottom.

So they launched a special column attack on the arts and culture sections of several major mainstream media outlets, including the Sankei Shimbun.

Between the lines, it not only maintains that condescending, traditional scrutiny, but also carries a kind of scathing and malicious intent, as if it were a purge: "Kitahara-kun is indeed a genius at creating commercial hits. He is extremely good at using extreme cases and cheap sensory stimulation to precisely cater to the public's curiosity. But please forgive my bluntness, 'Literature' is by no means a place to house street vendor literature."

"Having weathered more than half a century of trials and tribulations, the literary journal 'Bungei' carries a serious analysis of the depths of the human soul and represents the last vestige of dignity in Japanese pure literature. Forcibly stuffing popular tricks filled with the stench of money and calculation into such a weighty historical special issue that marks the transition from the Showa to the Heisei era is undoubtedly a blatant desecration of the essence of Japanese literature."

At the end of the article, Tadashi Nijo even offered a mockery akin to public execution: "Without the stimulation of gore and the deliberate plot twists, I'm very curious how much literary weight, even just a gram, remains in the writing of this young man, blindly idolized by the market?"

"Hopefully, he won't become the biggest joke in the literary world in the first year of the Heisei era, under the scrutinizing lens of pure literature."

These fiery manifestos sounded like a rallying cry.

Those conservative critics who had long been dissatisfied with Kitahara Iwa's sudden rise to fame quickly found a way to attack him in this campaign.

They tacitly published articles on various media outlets, using a seemingly objective but actually insidious strategy of praising to the point of destruction, continuously exaggerating the historical significance of this special issue of "Literature and Art".

For example, renowned literary critic Kensuke Otaki wrote extensively in the supplement of the Mainichi Shimbun: "The relay from the Showa era to the Heisei era is not only the theme of a special issue, but also the soul anchor of Japanese literature at the time of the transition between eras."

"Shinchosha is undoubtedly taking an extremely risky gamble by entrusting such a heavy historical narrative and era portrayal to a popular writer who is used to using serial murders and suspenseful plots to boost sales."

"We can only pray that Kitahara-kun's answer is not too frivolous, so as not to betray the profound heritage of 'Literature' over the past half-century."

Another veteran columnist echoed this sentiment sarcastically in Weekly Bunshun, his words brimming with arrogance: "The charm of pure literature lies in the weight of the words themselves and the subtleties of human nature, rather than in a deliberately constructed maze of plots."

"I really hope that Kitahara-sensei can write even a single, quiet, everyday narrative without relying on bizarre cases or murderer reversals."

"This may be an unprecedented challenge for a bestselling genius who made his name through sensory stimulation."

This subtle, yet veiled, rejection has quietly spread within the world of pure literature.

Conservative intellectuals seem to have reached a haughty tacit understanding.

They stopped making excessive comments and instead watched Shincho-sha's direction with a seemingly tolerant but actually extremely critical eye.

They waited quietly, waiting for Kitahara Iwa to reveal its inner weakness and inadequacy to the public.

At that time, in the name of protecting the dignity of pure literature, they will be able to rightfully push Kitahara Iwa back to the bottom of the popular literature hierarchy, making it impossible for him to ever rise again.

However, to the industry's surprise, in this seemingly one-sided public opinion attack, the first person to stand up for Kitahara Iwa was actually Takahashi Yoshio, who had previously had direct friction with Kitahara Iwa during the Naoki Prize controversy.

Initially, Yoshio Takahashi harbored resentment towards Kitahara Iwao.

Watching Shinchosha pour top-tier resources, originally belonging to veteran writers, into Kitahara Iwa, he always harbored a deep sense of injustice, feeling that his talents were not being recognized.

However, during that banquet, Kitahara Iwao did not act subserviently like a typical junior, but calmly and precisely pointed out the chronic problem in his works: an over-reliance on historical research, which led to a superficial core.

At that moment, Yoshio Takahashi was struck dumb. In addition to his anger, he felt a chill and a sudden realization that his cards had been seen through.

What truly allowed him to completely let go of his resentment was Kitahara Iwao's declaration at the press conference for "Confessions" some time ago.

When I heard Kitahara Iwao say on camera that the vitality of a literary work should not be limited to waiting for an award to be bestowed.

Yoshio Takahashi suddenly realized how low-level and narrow-minded his petty concerns about resource allocation and seniority seemed in the face of the other party's pure creative vision.

"If I choose to remain silent now, or join those old fogies in hunting him down, then I will have truly lost completely."

This intense self-examination enabled Yoshio Takahashi to transform from an envious person into a witness.

So, after sitting in his study for a long time, he picked up his pen and published an extremely frank, almost self-analytical, short commentary in the arts section of the Yomiuri Shimbun.

"I read Kitahara's interview the other day, and his purity and determination regarding the creation process deeply moved me."

"The weight of literature has never been about the debate between popular and serious labels, but about whether it truly touches people's hearts."

"I personally look forward to Kitahara-kun's upcoming writing in 'Literature' magazine."

If Yoshio Takahashi's statement demonstrated the dignity and integrity of a scholar after he had let go of his resentment.

The intervention of Kenzo Kita, a master of Japanese hard-boiled mystery, was like a bloody punch that tore apart all the pretense of elegance in this debate.

"What do you mean by saying you can't write a good story without relying on sensationalism?" Those self-proclaimed highbrow old men always think that only by stringing together a few dry, flowery words and whining in a teahouse can one create pure literature.

"In their eyes, pure literature is a wall used to keep reality out."

Kenzo Kita's answer was simple and direct, carrying a force that struck at the heart of the matter.

"They question Kitahara's inability to capture the depth of everyday life because they've never actually experienced what the streets of Japan smell like today."

"For ordinary people living in the mire, simply surviving is the cruelest and most profound narrative."

"If a writer can capture the most authentic taste of the people's blood, sweat, and toil, that is the highest level of pure literature."