My era, 1979!

Chapter 191 A Future That Isn't Bright (1.2 words, still asking for votes)

This master of historical fiction was destined to have a complex and critical attitude toward Xu Chengjun.

Ryotaro Shiba is known for his profound historical knowledge and insightful analysis of Japanese national character. His political leanings are characterized by liberal nationalism.

He profoundly criticized Japanese militarism and the bureaucratic system since the Meiji Restoration, but the foundation of his thought still lay in exploring and establishing "what Japan is" and "the path of Japan".

His feelings toward China were complex, encompassing respect for classical Chinese civilization, a critical examination of the turmoil of modern times, and a subtle, unspoken unease stemming from his role as a neighboring nation within the East Asian cultural sphere that had once learned from China, after their destinies diverged in modern times.

He was indeed invited by Iwanami Shoten with a "mission".

Originally, Iwanami Shoten's ideal candidate was Inoue Yasushi, who had extremely close ties with China and was the president of the Japan-China Cultural Exchange Association. However, Inoue Yasushi was currently accompanying Ba Jin and his delegation and was unable to attend. Therefore, Shiba Ryotaro, known for his broad East Asian perspective and calm historical view, became the first choice.

Iwanami hopes to engage in dialogue with this emerging Chinese writer in a relatively objective yet insightful manner.

Ryotaro Shiba nodded slightly in response to Xu Chengjun's greeting.

His gaze lingered on Xu Chengjun, and without exchanging pleasantries, he cut straight to the point, his voice low and deep:
“Xu Sang… I read ‘Red Silk’.”

He paused, seemingly considering his words, "Writing about war, but not fixating on the shouts and victories on the battlefield, but listening to the sobs behind the battlefield, the echoes of memories, and... the helplessness of individuals in the torrent of the times. Young man, your perspective is quite interesting."

These words sound like agreement, but the sharp gaze seems to say: Let me see if what you mean by "interesting" is truly insightful or just another form of sentimentalism.

Just then, there was a gentle knock on the door of the lounge, which was then pushed open.

Tetsuko Kuroyanagi walked in with her signature warm, spring-like smile.

"Mr. Oe, Mr. Sima, and Mr. Xu Chengjun, hello! I am the host, Tetsuko Kuroyanagi. Thank you all very much for coming to our little house today." She bowed slightly to each of the three men, her posture humble and sincere.

Kenzaburo Oe replied with a smile, "Ms. Tetsuko, it's been a long time. I'm here to bother you again."

Ryotaro Shiba also bowed politely: "Ms. Kuroyanagi, thank you for your trouble."

Xu Chengjun first replied in Chinese, and then responded again in Japanese that he had just learned and was not yet standard: "Hello, Ms. Kuroyanagi, I am Xu Chengjun, please take care of me."
After a brief exchange of pleasantries, Tetsuko Kuroyanagi said, "Well then, please prepare yourselves. We will begin recording soon. I will go to the studio to wait for you."

She smiled and waved again before leaving the lounge.

Soon, guided by the on-site director, the three of them entered the studio of "Tetsuko's Hut" one by one.

The studio environment was just like the show's tradition: warm, quiet, and seemingly isolated from the world.

The main backdrop is set up as a cozy Western-style "cabin" living room, complete with a brick fireplace (usually a prop), bookshelves, comfortable sofas, and warm-toned lighting. The overall atmosphere is like a secret haven where one can confide in someone, a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of Tokyo outside.

The seating arrangement followed conventions but was slightly adjusted to accommodate multiple interviewees.

Tetsuko Kuroyanagi sat on her eternal right-hand armchair.

Xu Chengjun, as the main guest, was seated on a single sofa to her left. Kenzaburo Oe and Ryotaro Shiba sat side by side on a larger double sofa a little further away, like two observers and commentators.

The lights were adjusted, and the scene quieted down.

Tetsuko Kuroyanagi faced the camera, revealing her inimitable smile, a blend of innocence and warmth. With her unique, slightly husky yet incredibly clear voice, she uttered the opening line familiar to everyone in Japan:

"さあ、日も、楽しいお话をserverっていきましょう!"

(So, let's listen to some interesting stories today!)

As she finished speaking, the recording officially began.

Hei Liu first turned her gaze to Xu Chengjun, her eyes filled with pure curiosity, like a child ready to listen to a story.

"Mr. Xu Chengjun, first of all, a very warm welcome to Japan and to our little house." Tetsuko Kuroyanagi's voice was gentle and encouraging. "For many Japanese viewers, this may be the first time they've seen you on television. Before we begin discussing your highly anticipated novel, 'The Red Silk,' could you please introduce yourself to everyone? For example, where in China are you from? What special and memorable things happened during your childhood there? We all know that a writer's initial inspiration often lies in the land where they grew up and in their childhood memories."

This question is full of Tetsuko Kuroyanagi's style.

Gentle, close to life, and starting from "people" themselves.

It bypasses all grand and potentially sensitive topics, returning directly to the most authentic personal growth experience, like a casual chat between friends.

Xu Chengjun was slightly taken aback.

This problem... how should I put it?

It was completely different from what he had expected.

He was used to the scrutiny, academic discussions, and even potential ideological clashes that came with coming to Japan, and he was prepared to deal with them with reason, logic, and textual analysis.

He may have heard his colleagues mention this longevity program in his past life, but he really didn't know the specific process and style.

At this moment, Tetsuko Kuroyanagi's completely unexpected question, full of warmth and "childlike innocence," was like a warm current that unexpectedly bypassed all his pre-set defenses and directly pointed to the most original and tender emotional core of his creation.

He's used to being sharp and confrontational, so this sudden display of tenderness takes him a bit off.

This left his sharp, ready-to-go edge momentarily at a loss, for he could only follow the gentle force and delve into the depths of his memories.

That's a really strong ability to control the situation.

The lines on his face softened, a natural reaction to being touched on a genuine emotion.

He tilted his head slightly, as if gazing at a distant point in the air, his gaze becoming distant.

"Ms. Kuroyanagi,"

He spoke, his voice warmer than before. Though the Chinese was translated, the emotion was still conveyed: "Thank you for your question. It reminds me... of some scenes I haven't consciously thought about for a long time, yet have never truly forgotten."

He paused, organizing his thoughts, not giving an academic presentation, but rather trying to salvage fragments of memory.

“I was born in a small place called Dongfeng County in eastern China. There are no skyscrapers like those in Tokyo, nor convenient appliances. My childhood was connected with the soil, crops, and the smoke rising from the village chimneys.”

His descriptions began to become specific, vivid, and evocative:
"What I remember most clearly is the 'threshing ground' on summer evenings. The production team would harvest the rice and spread it out on the huge ground to dry. It was a golden expanse, like fragments of the setting sun scattered on the ground. We children would run barefoot on it, the soles of our feet itchy from the rice grains, and the air was filled with the warm, cozy aroma of sunshine and rice."

"Back then, the greatest entertainment was when the commune's film projection team would come and show movies outdoors. A white screen would hang between two trees, the generator would hum and hum, and the whole village, young and old, would bring their stools and arrive early to reserve their spots. Sometimes I couldn't even remember what the movie was, but the excitement of waiting, the laughter or sighs that everyone shared in the darkness, and the scene of children chasing and playing in the moonlight after the movie... that collective, simple joy was etched into my bones."

He didn't deliberately embellish or avoid the marks of the times; he simply narrated calmly: "Of course, there are also memories that aren't so 'interesting.' For example, watching my parents meticulously budget for life, wishing they could split every penny in half; or seeing the neighbor's older brother join the army, and the mixed look of pride and worry in my family's eyes... Those moments will make you feel the weight of life and the shadow that the times cast on ordinary people very early on, even in your ignorance."

Then, he connected these memories with his creative work, his tone natural and profound:
"Ms. Kuroyanagi, you said that a writer's inspiration is hidden in the land where they grow up and in their childhood memories, and I think that's true. Later, when I wrote 'Red Silk,' I wrote about war, about change, and about ordinary people swept up by the great era... The characters in my works, their resilience, their silent love, and the little bit of 'happiness' they still try to protect when facing enormous uncertainty—like a piece of Shanghai milk candy or a distant promise—the underlying tone of these emotions may come from the warmth of the threshing ground in my childhood memories, and the glimmer of humanity that still stubbornly shone in those not-so-wealthy days."

He concluded by using a vivid and philosophical analogy:

"If you ask me, one's hometown is a writer's 'spiritual womb.' For me, the land of Dongfeng County taught me not grand principles, but the most basic life intuition: to feel the warmth of the sun, to cherish the taste of food, to understand the deep affection behind silence, and to believe that even in the most ordinary daily life, there is an epic story that can move people's hearts."

"My writing, to some extent, is about salvaging these faintly glowing fragments of memory that have settled at the bottom of the river of time. They are the starting point for my understanding of this world and of 'human beings'."

His answer contained no impassioned slogans, no deliberate sentimentality, but only a genuine warmth and insight that had been refined over time.

He successfully distilled his personal, Chinese childhood experiences into an expression with universal human emotional value.

Kenzaburo Oe, who had been listening quietly to the side, had an expression of admiration in his eyes.

Meanwhile, a subtle ripple flickered in Ryotaro Shiba's scrutinizing gaze. This young man was not the type he had anticipated, completely molded by ideology; his roots were planted in more concrete and fertile soil.

Tetsuko Kuroyanagi was completely drawn into his narrative. She clasped her hands together and exclaimed sincerely, "What a beautiful and powerful sharing! I suddenly feel I can completely understand how someone could draw strength from such memories to write a work like 'Red Silk.' Thank you, Mr. Xu."

Her face still held her signature expression, full of curiosity and goodwill, and she transitioned naturally into the following tone, as if exploring an interesting puzzle:
"Mr. Xu's depiction of his childhood is truly vivid. Although it may not have been as materially abundant as children's today, it was full of another kind of precious vitality. So, please allow me to ask—was this relatively... um... simple childhood an important reason that inspired you to create such a great work as 'Red Silk'?"

As she said this, she suddenly turned to the camera and smiled a little apologetically: "Ah, I have to apologize to the viewers in front of the TV. This work has not yet been officially released in Japan, but I have read it in advance because of work. It was a very luxurious experience."

The audience chuckled good-naturedly.

However, Xu Chengjun knew perfectly well what was going on.

Even shrouded in Tetsuko Kuroyanagi's signature childlike innocence and kindness, the unconscious, subtle discrimination based on differences in economic development is still faintly discernible, like dust in the air.

Words like “barren” and “simple” inherently carry a condescending, scrutinizing connotation.

He showed no displeasure whatsoever, only a helpless, slightly self-deprecating smile appeared on his lips, and then his eyes became clear and resolute.

Instead of directly refuting it, he redefined the source of his creative inspiration in a gentle yet unquestionable manner.

"Ms. Kuroyanagi,"

His voice was steady and clear: “The word ‘barren’ may not be accurate. Material abundance and spiritual richness are often not directly proportional. In my opinion, that period was not ‘barren’ but a ‘rich mine’ of emotions.”

He adjusted his posture slightly, becoming relaxed, as if unfolding a scroll of thought.

"You asked if this is the reason for creating 'Red Silk'? I would say that my childhood experiences did not give me 'materials' but 'sensory experience'—eyes that can find light even in dust, and ears that can hear thunder even in silence. It taught me to understand the essence of life, the most genuine desire for beautiful things and the most tenacious resistance to fate under limited conditions. This understanding is the root of creation."

He skillfully steered the conversation towards a broader and more forward-looking perspective, his tone relaxed and confident:
"Some say that suffering is the cradle of great works. I don't entirely agree with that. Profound insights can come from any environment, whether it's the tranquility of the countryside or the hustle and bustle of the city. My country, China, as you know, is undergoing a massive transformation and development. We face the past, but we are looking more towards the future."

At this point, he paused slightly, his gaze sweeping across the audience, and seemingly penetrating the camera to look at the entire Japanese society, before uttering a statement that was both frank and profound:
"To be honest, in my opinion, the amazing prosperity and modernization I see in Tokyo today will most likely be what China will look like tomorrow."

A moment of silence fell over the audience upon hearing this, and many viewers wore complex expressions—surprise, contemplation, and perhaps a barely perceptible tremor.

Will we, the world's number one, be the same as you?
There was some commotion at the scene.

Then, Xu Chengjun subtly shifted his tone, adopting the calm demeanor of a philosopher rather than a challenger, and continued:

"But what interests me more is, after achieving such prosperity, where will Japan go tomorrow? What new spiritual home will it explore? Because historical experience tells us that when a society climbs to the peak of material abundance, it is often the moment when it begins to face the most profound spiritual challenges. I have no intention of offending anyone; this is just a sincere curiosity from an observer and writer."

He did not stop at a simple comparison of material development, but elevated the issue to the level of the common dilemma of human civilization development.

"So, let's go back to literature itself. I believe that great literature is never just an indictment of 'barrenness' or a celebration of 'prosperity'."

Its more important mission may be to act as a 'probe of the times,' to anticipate the joys and sorrows, the confusion and longings within the collective human spirit. Whether it is a developing China or a highly developed Japan, many of the issues we face—regarding humanity, the conflict between technology and humanism, and the alienation and search for the individual in a fast-paced society—are essentially interconnected.

"My creations, whether it's 'Red Silk' or my future works, all aim to record the inner turmoil and quests of our generation in this era of dramatic change. This is not only a Chinese story, but also part of the common story of humanity in the context of globalization."

Xu Chengjun's answer cleverly defused the preconceived notion of "impoverishment," showcasing the confidence and vision of China's younger generation.

Instead of adopting a defensive stance, he used a broad, futuristic perspective to guide the discussion to a deeper level, exploring the common destiny of humankind.

This speech, which was both down-to-earth and philosophical, respecting reality while looking to the future, gave the Japanese audience present, including Kenzaburo Oe and Ryotaro Shiba, a strong intellectual impact. It was an undeniable intellectual power and demeanor from a new generation of Chinese writers.

Tetsuko Kuroyanagi also dropped her slightly teasing expression and nodded very seriously: "I see... Viewing childhood as the cultivation of 'senses' and literature as a 'probe of the times' is truly a very profound and novel perspective!"

Tetsuko Kuroyanagi was preparing to delve deeper into this gentle yet profound topic, guiding Xu Chengjun to share more about his literary world.

However, a deep, slightly hoarse voice, carrying undeniable weight, cut in, precisely seizing the most intriguing and challenging hook in Xu Chengjun's words.

"Xu Jun,"

Ryotaro Shiba spoke, leaning slightly forward, his sharp, hawk-like eyes fixed intently on Xu Chengjun through his glasses. "You just mentioned 'Japan of tomorrow' and expressed curiosity about its future. So, based on your perspective as a Chinese writer and an outside observer, I'd like to hear your more specific views—what do you think Japan will be like in the future?"

The question came directly, even abruptly, completely shattering the warm and cozy atmosphere of the "little house" that Tetsuko Kuroyanagi had tried so hard to create.

A fleeting, almost imperceptible displeasure crossed Hei Liu's face—the helplessness of having her carefully maintained rhythm disrupted. But her professionalism allowed her to immediately mask it with a smile, though her gaze darted between Sima and Xu Chengjun with a hint of worry.

The atmosphere at the scene instantly became tense.

Kenzaburo Oe also pushed up his glasses, revealing an even more focused expression.

Everyone understood that this was the real, hardcore clash of the night.

However, faced with this question, which was almost like that of a "general," Xu Chengjun was not nervous at all; instead, he smiled inwardly. This was the moment he had been waiting for—the moment when Ryotaro Shiba, a master known for his insightful understanding of the Japanese national character, would personally steer the topic into deeper waters.

He didn't shy away from the scrutinizing gaze, but met it calmly, his face still bearing that faint smile that seemed to know something. Then, with a calmness bordering on cruel honesty, he uttered five earth-shattering words:
"Not a bright future."

(Japanese transliteration: "明るい日とは言えないでしょう")
"Whoosh—" Despite the limited number of audience members, a clear gasp could still be heard.

In the early 1980s, during the golden age of Japan's economic bubble, the entire country was filled with an optimistic sentiment of "Japan is number one," and openly predicting that Japan's future was "not bright" was simply defying the world's opinion.

Even Tetsuko Kuroyanagi's smile froze on her face instantly, and she subconsciously covered her mouth with her hand.

(End of this chapter)