Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

Chapter 82 The Power of Love Letters (Third Update, Please Read On)

October arrived quickly, and the special issue of "Literature and Art" finally went on sale.

Early in the morning, the sky over Tokyo was overcast and carried the slight chill of early autumn.

During the morning rush hour, the tram carriages are packed with tired office workers and young literary enthusiasts who are used to reading on their commutes.

As these readers in the train carriage opened the thick, freshly printed magazine, each with their own thoughts, they held drastically different expectations of Kitahara Iwao, who was at the center of a media storm.

Some young readers, deeply moved by "The Ring" and "Confessions," bought "Literature" with high expectations.

They were eager to know what kind of groundbreaking writing Kitahara Iwa could produce in the hall of pure literature.

Another group of traditional literary enthusiasts, deeply influenced by the Kyoto School columns, adopted a condescending, spectator mentality.

Brainwashed by those newspapers, they have already prejudicially concluded that a writer who comes from a background of writing popular fiction can never produce anything with literary depth.

They were even prepared to read a poorly written work filled with the stench of commercialism.

With this complex collective psychology, accompanied by the regular friction of the train on the rails, everyone naturally began reading from the beginning of the book.

Unsurprisingly, the first and second most popular short stories are those by literary giants Yasushi Inoue and Junnosuke Yoshiyuki.

It must be said that the two masters possessed truly profound literary skill.

In just a few lines, Yasushi Inoue's short story paints a somber picture filled with a sense of fate and the beauty of mono no aware (the pathos of things).

Following closely behind, Junnosuke Yoshiyuki, with his signature sensitivity and icy coldness, conveyed the postwar generation's ruthless dissection of humanity.

As the tram swayed slightly, readers were drawn into an extremely heavy mood by these two pieces of orthodox, pure literature.

That lofty compassion and extreme restraint cast a gray shadow over everyone's hearts.

The sound of pages turning in the carriage gradually became slow and muffled.

As readers were immersed in the weight of this pure literature, subconsciously assuming that this substantial special issue would maintain its cold and profound tone to the end, they turned to the last page of Ji Xingtai's short story.

The next second, everyone's eyes were drawn to the third book in the list—"Love Letter" (written by Kitahara Iwao).

In the literary world, where seniority and layout are highly valued, this ranking caused many readers to pause slightly.

"Third in line—it's Kitahara Iwao?!"

In one corner of the carriage, several young people who looked like students exchanged incredulous glances and whispered among themselves.

Those self-proclaimed seasoned literature enthusiasts merely frowned slightly and inwardly let out a dismissive snort.

In their view, this might just be a commercial compromise made by "Literature and Art" magazine in order to maintain sales.

So, with a "I'll see what you can write" mentality, the readers started reading the main text.

Initially, many people felt physically uncomfortable when they saw the opening descriptions of the rough and even sweaty and dirty life of the underclass in Kabukicho.

This wild and straightforward writing style is completely out of step with the elegance of the previous two masterpieces. It's like suddenly slapping a piece of raw meat with blood on a delicate French dining table.

however.

Just three minutes later, the crowded morning rush hour carriage fell into an extremely eerie silence.

This deathly silence wasn't because no one was talking, but because everyone in the carriage was gripped by a burning sorrow.

A middle-aged office worker in a sharp suit froze when he saw the suicide note signed "Bai Lan," which was riddled with typos and grammatically incorrect: "—I secretly wrote this letter to you when no one was around."

"Just lie there, supporting yourself with your hand as you write the letter."

"So my handwriting is terrible, I'm so sorry."

"After arriving at the hospital, I didn't say much."

"If I speak in Japanese, I'll think of Mr. Goro. So I try not to speak."

As the middle-aged man looked at Bai Lan's words, which were as simple as could be, his shoulders began to tremble uncontrollably.

His long-standing, numb facade, which he used to combat life's pressures and workplace humiliation, shattered completely in the face of these few clumsy lines of text.

He bit his lip hard, but tears welled up in his eyes without warning.

He didn't even dare to look up, and could only let the tears fall in large drops onto the rough pages, blurring the words "I will try not to speak" into indistinct shapes.

He recalled how, in his youth, he had struggled to survive in this city, just like Bai Lan, and had longed for even the smallest bit of warmth.

The young female office worker sitting next to the middle-aged man was reading the special issue with a slightly weary and scrutinizing air.

As a career woman who had worked hard in Tokyo and was used to a sophisticated facade, she initially had a natural psychological distance from Kitahara Iwa, a place at the bottom of Kabukicho.

But as her gaze deepened on the letter from Bai Lan, her fingertips began to tremble uncontrollably as she turned the pages.

Because what's written above is Bai Lan's most humble yet most sincere confession: "—Thank you for giving me an identity. Thank you for allowing me to live here."

"Thank you for giving me a home. Although this home is just a piece of paper, and although you have never been by my side, I am very happy."

"I am truly happy."

In that instant, the female office worker's back, which had been standing very straight, seemed to have suddenly lost its support, and she slumped against the back of her chair.

The home that Bai Lan described as consisting of only a piece of paper and the kind of humble, dust-like happiness was like a slender needle, precisely piercing through all the vanity and strength she built up with brand-name cosmetics and smart suits.

At the other end of the carriage, several college students who were laughing and joking on their way to a club activity were now huddled together looking at a special edition magazine.

They had originally come for Kitahara Iwa's reputation for exotic adventures, but at this moment, these arrogant teenagers seemed to be frozen in place, and their laughter, which they had been using to cover up their embarrassment, came to an abrupt halt.

One of the boys, who was usually the most mischievous, was clumsily wiping his eyes with his sleeve, but he couldn't stop the first tremor of fear welling up from the bottom of his heart at the cruel truth of the world.

In this extremely oppressive and restrained country, people are not only crying for Bai Lan who died in the swamp, but also for their own urban lives, where they are also adrift and helpless, yet dare not even easily utter the word "happiness".

This silent collective lapse quickly spread across trains, cafes, and benches throughout Japan.

After a while, when the readers finally composed themselves and their fingers unconsciously flipped through "Love Letters" to look at the next article.

What comes into view is Tadashi Nijo's meticulously worded essay, "On the Collapse of the Showa Family."

If just a moment ago, readers were still feeling the most fervent sincerity of humanity at the bottom of society in Bai Lan's line, "I will make you happy."

So at this moment, looking at Nijo Tadashi's cold writing filled with obscure vocabulary, which was condescending and seemed to be pointing out the flaws in the world, I felt a sense of superiority.

A powerful physiological backlash erupted completely in that instant.

The feeling is like having just bid farewell to your dearest loved one in a simple mourning tent, and before you even leave, you bump into an expert in a suit and tie, holding a megaphone, talking at length to the family about the sociological evolution of funeral etiquette.

This extreme arrogance and inappropriateness made every reader still immersed in the tragedy of Pharaoh feel a real sense of nausea.

It was like having just drunk a mouthful of incredibly hot blood, and before you could even swallow it, someone forcibly pried open your mouth and stuffed in a handful of dry, moldy sawdust.

Most readers couldn't even get through the first two lines before their eyes reddened, their brows furrowed, and they let out a disgusted click of their tongues before ruthlessly turning the page.

"What kind of garbage is this?! Reading such arrogant dogma at a time like this is an insult to Bai Lan!"

In a corner of the carriage, a young student suddenly slammed the magazine shut, his voice still trembling with sobs and barely suppressed anger.

His words drew the attention of the surrounding readers, but no one stopped him; on the contrary, many people showed expressions of deep agreement.

"What do you mean by the collapse of the Showa family? This hypocritical tone of sitting in a high-class study and pointing fingers is truly disgusting."

The middle-aged office worker, who had just wiped away his tears, looked at the conspicuous name Nijo Tadashi and said with intense disgust, "Compared to the vivid lives depicted in Kitahara-sensei's works, this Nijo Tadashi is simply a ridiculous clown."

"He even published a satirical article in the newspaper about Kitahara-sensei. Who is the one who's truly unworthy of respect?"

"People like Nijo Tadashi don't understand what true literature is at all; all they know is power and preaching!"

Suddenly, the once deathly silent carriage was filled with disdainful whispers.

The core section that Tadashi Nijo was originally proud of, in the aftermath of the silent tsunami of "Love Letter," not only failed to become a stabilizing force, but instead became a pile of the most disgusting excrement called elite dogma.

The writing that was once lauded to the skies by the Kyoto School has now become, in the eyes of readers, the most unbearable garbage time in the entire special issue.

At the same time, in Kyoto, hundreds of kilometers away.

The morning sunlight streamed through the exquisite shoji doors into Nijo Tadashi's extremely elegant tea room.

At this moment, Nijo Tadashi specially asked his servant to warm a pot of top-grade Daiginjo sake, preparing to truly savor his unparalleled glory of being ranked fourth in the special issue after breakfast.

For him, being promoted from fifth to fourth was the most sincere recognition from "Literature and Art" magazine of him as a bigwig of the Kyoto School.

Tadashi Nijo picked up the sample copy on the table with a smug look on his face and gently stroked the cover with his fingertips.

Due to the deep-rooted obsession with ranking among scholars, Nijo Tadashi did not turn directly to his own chapter, but instead slowly started reading from the beginning of the book.

He sought in the writings of those literary giants a sense of class identity, a feeling of being on par with the powerful.

Nijo Tadashi lightly twirled his fingertips and turned to the first page.

Inoue Yasushi's works have a desolate feel to them. Nijo Tadashi read them carefully while taking a satisfied sip of top-grade Daiginjo sake.

As if sitting on the judges' panel looking down on his juniors, he stroked his beard and muttered to himself, "Inoue-kun's article has enough substance. Although it is more about maintaining the status quo than making progress, it is well-deserved to be used to hold the fortified position of the special issue and can barely manage to keep the show going."

Then, he turned to the second pick.

Watching the master dissect the iconic, cold-blooded style of Junnosuke Yoshiyuki, Tadashi Nijo's smile deepened. As the aroma of sake blossomed on his tongue, he began to feel a little lightheaded.

"Ji Xingjun is still the same as ever, his pen always carries that aloof and cold air."

Nijo Tadashi put down his wine glass, his eyes revealing a smug sense of control, and said, "But it's fine. This cold prelude will only serve to highlight the grand narrative and humanistic concern in my next piece, 'On the Collapse of Showa Families'."

"This is called 'cold first, then hot,' brilliant, absolutely brilliant!"

In his view, having these two great figures leading the way was like having two high-ranking officials solemnly guiding him toward the throne of the literary world.

Even if the third seat is occupied by a well-established old man, in his eyes, he is nothing more than a foil to polish his fourth seat.

With this almost inflated sense of pleasure, Nijo Tadashi, like a general inspecting a guard of honor, casually turned the page with a touch of condescending arrogance, flipping it to the decisive third position.

However, when his eyes fell upon the words "Love Letter" (written by Kitahara Iwao) printed prominently on the paper, the smile on Nijo Tadashi's face instantly froze.

"This is utterly absurd!"

Nijo Tadashi slammed his wine glass down, letting out a furious roar: "Have those old fogies in the editorial department of 'Literary Literature' gone mad?! How dare they blatantly shove this brat who writes bestselling books in front of me?!"

At that moment, Nijo Tadashi felt a great sense of humiliation. He quickly grabbed the red fountain pen on the table that he used to correct other people's articles, and with an arrogant attitude of absolute criticalness and judgment, stared intently at Kitahara Iwao's article.

He planned to thoroughly criticize Kitahara Iwa's lousy articles, using them as material for his next column and as a manifesto to attack "Literature and Art".

however.

As his gaze delved deeper into the words, the muscles on Nijo Tadashi's face, which had been carrying a cold smile, began to stiffen.

That farewell letter, written in broken Japanese, did not use any of the sophisticated rhetoric he was familiar with, nor did it flaunt any profound philosophical imagery.

But the extreme despair and pure love revealed in every word were like heavy and resounding slaps, mercilessly striking his self-proclaimed elegant old face.

Nijo Tadashi's hand, holding the red pen, began to tremble violently and uncontrollably.

He tried to find grammatical errors in those texts and attempted to deconstruct them using decades of accumulated literary theory.

But he discovered in despair that, in the face of such ultimate sincerity that could reach the soul, his so-called pure literary foundation, which he was so proud of, was as pale as a piece of window paper that could be torn at the slightest touch.

pat!

A voice broke the deathly silence of the tea room.

It turned out that Nijo Tadashi's fountain pen had slipped from his fingertips and knocked over a white porcelain wine glass when it hit the table.

The expensive Daiginjo sake poured out, dripping along the edge of the wooden table onto the expensive tatami mat, leaving a messy water stain.

But he seemed to have lost consciousness, even forgetting his instinct to wipe.

At this moment, Nijo Tadashi's face was ashen, and he felt as if he had fallen into an ice cave.

As a veteran writer who had spent most of his life in the publishing industry, he finally understood why the former editor-in-chief of "Literature" magazine had placed him fourth in the list of priorities when his arrogance was completely shattered by Kitahara Iwao's words.

The literary editors deliberately, even maliciously, nailed this masterpiece, which was destined to ignite the tear ducts of all of Japan, firmly to the front of their articles!

That shrewd editor-in-chief knew better than anyone that any reader whose empathy threshold had been completely drained by "Love Letter" would only feel nauseous upon seeing his own condescending, rotten, formulaic essay.

I am placed in this so-called fourth position, not as a pillar of pure literature.

Instead, he was personally pushed to the guillotine by the old editor-in-chief, to be used as a stinking rag to highlight the masterpiece in front of all the readers in Japan!