Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

Chapter 197 Free Writers' Alliance

After Kenzaburo Oe finished speaking, the private room fell silent for a moment.

Murakami Ryu idly twirled the lighter in his hand, Murakami Haruki took a sip of his drink, and Abe Kobo continued to stare at the empty glass in front of him.

No one showed any surprise.

Clearly, this was not a decision made on a whim by Da Jiang tonight, but rather a tacit consensus reached by the senior colleagues present.

"This alliance is not formed to hold a banquet together, nor is it to bestow some meaningless titles."

Kenzaburo Oe's voice was soft, even carrying a hint of old age fatigue, as he said, "It has only one use:

The next time a young person who tells the truth is investigated for tax evasion by the Ministry of Finance or cornered in an alley by yakuza, he can look back and see someone standing next to him.

"Iwa-kun, the reason you were able to pull through this time is because you have sales figures in your hands, Shinchosha is backing you up, and you have the popularity you've built up from your previous works. You've already reached a high enough position."

"But what if it were a poor kid just starting out?"

"Before readers even see his book, he may have already been crushed by the massive state apparatus."

"So we are sitting here today not only to celebrate your breakthrough, but also to build a shield for those who follow."

As the words fell silent, the private room fell into a long silence, with only a crisp, hollow sound coming from the courtyard outside the window.

At that moment, Kitahara Iwa's mind flashed back to the National Tax Agency's brutal search, the clubs and daggers smashing car windows at the alley entrance, and Murata Taro's resolute decision to mortgage his villa in order to reprint "The Collapsing Tower II".

Thinking this, Kitahara Iwao slowly said, "Mr. Oe, any organization that bears the name 'Association' is extremely prone to ultimately degenerating into another kind of hypocritical exchange of business cards."

"Over time, people will no longer compete on their work, but on seniority, position, and mutual endorsement."

"At that time, it will not only fail to protect literature, but will instead become another chain around the neck of writers."

As soon as he finished speaking, Murakami Ryuya nodded in agreement, saying, "Well said."

After finishing his sentence, Murakami Ryu lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and then said, "If I had to sit in a row with a bunch of old men and drink tea, I'd rather go home and sleep."

But the next second, Murakami Ryu changed the subject: "But this time it's different."

"If someone tries to use their power to suppress writers who speak the truth, I wouldn't mind criticizing them in the newspapers until they suffer social death."

Haruki Murakami, standing nearby, swirled the ice in his glass and said in his usual casual tone, "I hate anything that includes the word 'organization'."

"If this alliance exists to defend the freedom of writers to remain alone," then I'm willing to sign my name on the list.

At that moment, Kobo Abe's voice rang out coldly: "What the organization excels at is writing freedom into its charter and then strangling it little by little."

"Kitahara-kun, your concerns are valid, but that's precisely why we need you to join us."

"If I had such a clean platform, I could openly tell those decadent critics: Stop pointing fingers with your own ideas; writers have the right to depict the reality of this country!"

Marutani Saiichi nodded slightly and slowly took over the conversation, saying, "As long as you don't follow the seniority system, I can contact a few reputable publications to help you build public opinion."

Kenzaburo Oe was not angry at all in the face of everyone's "outrageous" yet extremely sincere statement.

He simply looked at Kitahara Iwa again, his eyes filled with an almost pleading expectation, and said, "Did you hear that, Iwa-kun?"

"If this matter is only initiated by a few old bones like us who are half-buried, it will at best become a lifeless literary monument."

Kenzaburo Oe looked at Iwao Kitahara and said, word by word, "That's why we need you."

"Because you've truly seen danger, yet you still refuse to compromise with reality."

"Only when someone like you sits on the roster will those young authors with no background actually believe it."

"When they one day offend someone they shouldn't have, there are actually people who dare to stand by their side."

Faced with Kenzaburo Oe's unreserved expectations, Kitahara Iwa remained silent for a moment.

He looked at these seniors who had unhesitatingly staked their reputations and futures on the gambling table, and slowly picked up the whiskey in front of him.

"Mr. Oe, if you really want to do it, don't make it into a lukewarm literary salon."

Kitahara Iwa met Oe Kenzaburo's gaze and said, "It must have teeth."

Upon hearing this, Murakami Ryu's eyes immediately lit up.

Kitahara Iwa ignored his reaction and continued, "Zhang Cheng should not talk about the debate between pure literature and popular literature."

"One sentence is enough. No writer should have to face power alone just because they have written something that embarrasses it."

The room fell completely silent.

After a moment, Kenzaburo Oe slowly nodded and said, "Alright, we'll do it your way."

"Let's call it the Free Writers' Alliance."

Murakami Ryu chuckled softly upon hearing this, casually toying with the lighter on the table, and said, "Sounds like a name that's about to be jointly investigated by the Ministry of Finance and the Metropolitan Police Department."

"At least it sounds much better than that bureaucratic name like the 'Modern Literature Promotion Committee'."

Haruki Murakami added slowly from the side.

Listening to the casual banter of the group, Kenzaburo Oe seemed to be pondering something.

After a moment, he turned to look at Kitahara Iwa and asked, "The alliance should set aside some money to establish a support program specifically to protect young authors."

"Iwa-kun, in your new book, what was that thing that father and son were so desperately protecting in the wasteland? What was it again?"

Kitahara Iwa paused for a moment, then replied, "Fire."

"right."

Kenzaburo Oe nodded gently and said, "Then let's call it 'Fire Seed'."

"Our association neither has the ability nor the obligation to illuminate the entire country."

"I just want the next young man who is surrounded in the dark to know that there is someone willing to protect the fire in his heart, so that he won't freeze to death alone in the wilderness."

After finishing his sentence, Kenzaburo Oe solemnly picked up the whiskey in front of him and continued, "Not to become some new authority, but simply to ensure that writers who are beyond the reach of authority can still hold their pens securely."

Everyone raised their glasses.

Six glasses filled with ice and spirits gently clinked together in mid-air.

The party ended close to midnight.

Kitahara Iwa walked out of the clubhouse alone, stood by the old pine tree in the courtyard, and looked back at the wooden door that was slowly closing.

Inside the door, several of the most important writers in the Japanese literary world were still enthusiastically discussing the first list of initiators.

Kenzaburo Oe, Kobo Abe, Iwao Kitahara, Haruki Murakami, Ryu Murakami, Saiichi Marutani — and many more writers, poets, and critics who will soon be drawn into the camp.

Once this list is released, it will inevitably cause a major upheaval in Japanese society.

A few days later, one morning, Tokyo, already in a state of panic after the bursting of the bubble economy, was completely torn open by a sudden and unexpected storm of print media.

Initially, it was Shincho, a long-established literary magazine under Shincho Publishing, that took the lead in launching the attack.

Immediately afterwards, readers were shocked to discover in newsstands at major bookstores and tram stations that the usually arrogant...

Several of the industry's most prestigious and independent publications, such as "Gunxiang," "Literature," and "Chuo Gonglun," broke all established layout conventions on the same day, giving up the most important frontispiece position.

But this is just the prelude.

What truly made the entire Japanese society feel this tremor was the mainstream morning newspapers delivered to tens of millions of citizens every morning.

On the crowded Yamanote Line trams during the morning rush hour, and in cafes on every street corner, countless office workers flipping through the Asahi Shimbun and Mainichi Shimbun were shocked by the unusual scene in the newspapers.

In this era where every inch of newspaper space is precious, the newspaper unusually removed its usual political and economic news and some business news at the bottom.

Instead, there was a full-page article stripped of all pictures and subtitles, consisting solely of densely packed lead type.

At the very top of the page, a bold black title spans all sections, crisply and clearly leaping into the view of millions of readers:

Declaration of the Founding of the Free Writers' League

At the bottom of the page is a long list of initiators.

Kenzaburo Oe, Kobo Abe, Iwa Kitahara, Haruki Murakami, Ryu Murakami, Saiichi Marutani————

In addition, there are several other names who hold significant influence in postwar literature, criticism, poetry, and publishing.

These names, listed one by one, are like nails driven into the paper.

The main text of the declaration was surprisingly brief.

The opening avoids lengthy tracings of literary tradition, omits tedious association bylaws, and abandons the self-aggrandizing platitudes commonly used by literary organizations.

The entire long article simply and restrainedly listed a series of recent events one by one:

An author faced administrative intervention because his work touched upon real-world interests; a publishing house faced the threat of loan cutoffs from financial institutions; bookstores were forced to remove controversial books due to external pressure; the press was subjected to threats from Google to withdraw orders; and the author himself narrowly escaped an armed assassination attempt on the street.

Although no names were mentioned in the text, any citizen who has watched the television news or read "The Collapsing Tower" knows where these sentences are referring to.

Finally, at the very end of the banner, the concluding sentence that set the tone for the alliance was deliberately bolded and enlarged, firmly positioned at the visual center of the entire page: "No writer should have to face power alone because he has written words that embarrass it."

On this somewhat dull morning, an unusual number of readers lingered for a long time in front of the newsstands in bookstores and convenience stores throughout Tokyo.

At that moment, in the editorial department of Shincho-sha, Kenichi Sato was standing by the window, clutching a sample copy of Shincho-sha magazine that still smelled of ink.

Looking at that row of names representing half of the Japanese literary world, he felt as if something had hit him hard in the chest.

The Japanese publishing industry has never lacked joint statements.

In the past, most of those joint signatures were just formalities where people in the industry would support each other, and occasionally they would also include some utilitarian award promotions and political demands.

But this time it's completely different.

This is not mere theoretical discussion by scholars and literati, but a real declaration of war.

This list serves as a stark warning to those high-ranking political and business power centers and the lurking machines of violence: from now on, when a creator is forced into a corner with nowhere to retreat, he will no longer be alone behind the scenes!

At almost the same time, the atmosphere inside the Kasumigaseki government building was completely changed by this sudden, full-page article.

In the conference room of the Ministry of Finance, several bureaucrats sat silently facing each other.

Several copies of the day's morning newspapers were scattered on the table. A sliver of pale sunlight shone through the half-drawn curtains, but it couldn't dispel the oppressive and chilly atmosphere accompanied by the smell of smoke.

A middle-aged bureaucrat stared intently at the full-page statement in the Asahi Shimbun, his face ashen.

His gaze slid over the signatures of Kenzaburo Oe, Kobo Abe, and the two Murakami masters at the bottom, and finally, as if stung, it fixed on the three words "Kitahara Iwa".

After a long, deathly silence, someone uttered a low, muttered curse through gritted teeth: "Idiot."

No one asked him who he was cursing.

Everyone present knew perfectly well that this curse was directed not only at the IRS's clumsy search or the ill-advised violent attack at the alleyway, but also at the decision-making body that initially thought it could silence the intellectuals by doing some dirty work, and even at themselves who were sitting here tacitly approving of the whole plan.

Initially, Xia Guan had a very shrewd plan, thinking that he was dealing with nothing more than a young scholar who had nothing but fame.

They attempted to ruin the publisher's reputation through tax audits, cut off bank loans to strangle the publisher, and then combine this with channel blackouts and gang intimidation to completely break down the other party's psychological defenses.

However, the situation spiraled out of control.

This once invincible forceful approach not only failed to suppress Kitahara Iwa, but instead backfired, forcing the core force with the greatest international reputation and popular appeal in the entire Japanese literary world into an ironclad formation with its guns pointed at an external force.

"Kenzaburo Oe, Kobo Abe, and those two Murakami—"

An official in charge of financial administration communications took off his glasses in frustration, rubbing his aching temples, and said, "These intellectuals usually don't even bother to support each other's literary awards, but now they're putting their names on the same newspaper just for Kitahara Iwa."

"This is not a literary organization at all; it's a combination of postwar literature, social realism, and those rebellious writers who write about modern cities."

"The troubles don't just extend to the domestic market."

The foreign affairs official sitting opposite him tapped the table coldly and said, "The British publishers haven't stopped paying attention, and the afterglow of that Financial Times front-page report hasn't faded yet."

"At this critical juncture, if something were to happen to these great writers, we would truly become a group of barbarians resorting to violent silencing in the eyes of the international community."

The official, rubbing his temples, sighed and turned to the other side: "What was the Metropolitan Police Department's stance?"

"I withdrew my hand a long time ago."

A colleague beside him said in a dry voice, "If the higher-ups personally intervened, those connections with Miyazawa Shinmitsu would have been completely severed before dawn. As for the yakuza side—"

He paused, picked up the now-cold tea on the table, took a sip, and looked gloomy.

"We don't even need to warn them."

"Those gangsters know better than anyone how to avoid danger and seek profit. They've already made it clear in the underworld that if anyone dares to touch Kitahara Iwa, they're simultaneously offending the Metropolitan Police Department, all the newspapers in Japan, and those old men who hold the power of discourse. Even Amaterasu Omikami can't protect them."

As soon as he finished speaking, the conference room fell silent again.

Ultimately, the shrewd bureaucrats of Xiaguan were never afraid of offending people; they only feared one thing: losing control!

The moment this statement was released, the chips on the poker table completely changed.

Before this, Kitahara Iwa was at best a troublesome and difficult writer.

Now, if Kitahara Iwa encounters any further "misfortune," no matter how perfectly the official closing statement is written, the entire Japanese public will only recognize one thing: the Ministry of Finance and capital colluded to kill a person who dared to speak the truth through despicable means.

And those literary giants on the list will definitely use their sharpest pens to write about Kasumigaseki's disgraceful behavior in newspapers, overseas media, and even in the history of Japanese literature for the next few decades, making them infamous for eternity.

The atmosphere in the conference room at the Metropolitan Police Department headquarters was equally oppressive.

Several high-ranking officials stared at the newspaper on the table with grim faces.

Although the "Declaration of the Founding of the Free Writers' Union" avoided directly attacking the Metropolitan Police Department on the surface, the statement that "the writer himself was attacked with a weapon on the street" was like a merciless slap in the face to the police.

The media has always had the keenest sense of smell.

Riding on the wave of this statement, the social affairs reporters, who were seething with anger, launched a furious counterattack, digging deep into the complex web of illicit dealings between yakuza boss Shinko Miyazawa and real estate companies and housing agencies.

A large number of reporters blocked the entrance to the Metropolitan Police Department, shoving microphones into the spokesperson's face and refusing to let go of the original press release that characterized the assassination as "attempted robbery," forcing the spokesperson to break out in a cold sweat and unable to utter a complete answer for a long time.

External public opinion was raging, while internally everyone was on edge.

The superior officer who had previously used his power to suppress the interrogation request from the grassroots inspection minister can now only hide in his locked office with a gloomy face, not daring to even leave the room.

But in the conference room at headquarters, the high-ranking officers of the Metropolitan Police Department didn't even want to look at this idiot anymore.

Everyone knew perfectly well that, under the collective attack from literary giants and the media's relentless bombardment, the case could no longer be covered up.

To quell this public outcry, the Metropolitan Police Department must deliver a sufficiently significant price to the public.

They not only have to hold a high-profile press conference and bow 90 degrees to apologize to the entire nation, but they also have to strip the official involved of his police rank without hesitation and throw him directly to the prosecutor's office as a sacrifice to quell public anger.

If they do not decisively cut their losses and save themselves, the entire police force will be nailed to the pillar of shame for "acting as lackeys for the yakuza and capital," and will become public enemies of the whole society.

However, what truly sent chills down the spines of these seasoned Metropolitan Police Department officials was the terrifying power of discourse embodied behind the list.

However, what truly sent chills down the spines of these seasoned Metropolitan Police Department officials was the terrifying power of discourse that emanated from the list.

When this group of intellectuals, the most skilled at using words and the most adept at stirring up national emotions in all of Japan, converge their pens in the same direction, their destructive power is far more lethal than the knives and guns on the street.

This group controls columns in mainstream newspapers, headlines in core journals, and even dominates the historical narrative of the country's future.

Now, they are no longer isolated individuals, but have a name that allows them to stand up to any powerful force—the Free Writers' Alliance.

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