Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

Chapter 76 Unchanged

The old editor-in-chief's gaze fell on the manuscript, and less than three minutes later, the faint conversation in the office completely subsided.

Several editors who were holding coffee and waiting for the results stopped what they were doing without realizing it, and even their breathing became lighter.

The old editor-in-chief tightened his grip on the manuscript paper slightly, his body leaning forward unconsciously, his gaze completely drawn into the emotions conveyed between the lines.

In this highly anticipated original manuscript, Kitahara Iwao did not use any of the ornate rhetoric favored by the Kyoto school.

He simply wrote the last words of the stowaway woman named Byakuran in the most straightforward, even somewhat clumsy and broken Japanese: "Goro, thank you."

"Because of Goro, I'm able to send money home to buy medicine for my father—"

"Although I have an incurable disease, in my dreams, I am with Goro every day."

Even in death, Byakuran will still be Goro's wife.

"Thank you, Goro. I want to see you."

Goro, the pimp who lorded it over everyone in Kabukicho, sat on a crowded Shinjuku train, clutching a cheap white cloth box containing Byakuran's ashes, and wept bitterly like a completely abandoned child.

As he finished reading the last period, the senior editor slowly closed the manuscript in his hands.

At this moment, the office fell into an extremely heavy silence, with only the faint sound of the edges of papers rubbing together.

The old editor-in-chief slowly took off his reading glasses and placed them on the table. He didn't say anything, but leaned back in his chair as if he were exhausted.

This elderly man, who had witnessed decades of ups and downs in the Japanese literary world and spent most of his life observing the joys and sorrows of others, looked up at the incandescent light on the ceiling and remained silent for a long time, as if trying to calm a long-lost bitterness in his chest.

The senior editors who had been standing by and reading the copy fell into a suffocating silence.

In this silent stillness, every editor knew perfectly well that the prejudices against the literary establishment and the arrogance of the Kyoto School would soon be crushed by these few thin pages of manuscript.

After a long while, the deputy editor-in-chief took off his glasses, rubbed his reddened eyes, and said in a hoarse voice, "I thought he would use flowery language to refute the doubts, but I didn't expect—he has refined his writing to this extent."

"Those people laugh at him for his lack of refinement, but look at this love letter."

The deputy editor-in-chief took a deep breath and continued, "Faced with the power of these words that strike straight to the heart, the empty rhetoric and affected whining of the Kyoto School are as pale as a blank sheet of paper."

The old editor-in-chief put on his reading glasses again and gently stroked the edge of the manuscript with his weathered, wrinkled hands, his movements as delicate as if he were handling a fragile treasure.

"It is so simple that it is almost cruel, yet it is more suffocating than any flowery language."

"Take a look."

The old editor-in-chief's voice deepened as he continued, "Those people in Kyoto who spent their entire lives writing about the pathos of things probably never dreamed that true sorrow doesn't need to be built up with scenery."

As the initial shock subsided in the office, the publishing process had to continue.

A young editor habitually pulled a red pen from his breast pocket, removed the cap, and prepared to enter the most tedious and rigorous step before a manuscript is published in a traditional literary journal—proofreading.

In the tradition of "Literature and Art", even the original manuscripts submitted by established masters are subject to careful scrutiny by the editorial department, from the refinement of vocabulary to the reconstruction of grammar, allowing no room for error.

Moreover, in their original view, Kitahara Iwa was just an author from a popular literature background, and his writing should have many parts that needed to be regulated, marked with a red pen.

The young editor's gaze lingered on Bai Lan's farewell letter, his brow furrowing slightly: "Editor-in-chief, there are several instances of verb misuse and particle collocation in this last paragraph that don't conform to standard grammar. I'll polish those places a bit—"

Just as the red pen was about to fall, the old editor-in-chief suddenly reached out and tapped the table twice with his knuckles, stopping him from doing so.

The young editor looked up in surprise.

"Put the pen away."

The old editor-in-chief's voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable professional authority.

Then, looking at the somewhat clumsy sentences on the manuscript, the old editor-in-chief said in a serious tone, "Bai Lan is an illegal immigrant without even legal status."

"Her half-baked Japanese, riddled with obvious grammatical errors, is the most authentic foundation of this novel."

The senior editor raised his eyes, his gaze sweeping over the editors present, and continued, "If you were to rewrite it in red pen into Japanese that conforms to publishing standards, it would just be a refined, formulaic essay."

"Doing this is tantamount to personally erasing the last trace of that lower-class woman's struggle in this world."

At this point, the old editor-in-chief withdrew his hand and calmly issued an extremely rare instruction to the entire editorial department since the founding of "Literature and Art": "This article, without changing a single word, will be typed out exactly as it is."

"Not even a misused particle or an awkward punctuation mark is allowed to be changed."

"We want to print this rawest truth onto paper, exactly as it is."

After this extremely unusual order was issued, the senior editor-in-chief sat back down at his desk.

He first picked up his slightly cold coffee and took a sip to moisten his hoarse throat, then picked up the phone receiver and personally dialed Kitahara Iwa's number.

At this moment, the veteran publisher has completely shed the doubts and scrutiny he had when he first encountered authors from other fields.

Instead, there was the solemnity that a senior editor would show when faced with a top-notch manuscript.

The call was answered quickly.

The old editor-in-chief's voice regained its usual composure, his tone revealing undisguised professional admiration as he said, "Mr. Kitahara, the editorial department has just finished reading the original manuscript."

"This is an extremely powerful work that vividly portrays the sorrow of the underprivileged."

Then the old editor-in-chief paused for a moment, and then made that extremely unusual decision: "Therefore, the editorial department unanimously decided..."

"This 'Love Letter' didn't need any of the usual editing or polishing processes. It went straight to the printing press without a single change."

"It is an honor for Literature and Art Magazine to publish this work."

However, this was in stark contrast to the solemn atmosphere at the editorial office of "Literature and Art" where they seemed to have found a treasure.

At this moment, Kitahara Iwao did not experience the tension that outsiders imagined, where cross-disciplinary authors anxiously await the verdict from the halls of pure literature.

Kitahara Iwa was wearing a loose-fitting house dress, tilting his head, holding the phone receiver to his ear with his shoulder, and slowly stirring the bubbling instant ramen in the pot with long chopsticks in one hand.

Beside Kitahara Iwa stood Kamachi Sachiko, who looked on with anticipation.