Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

Chapter 201 The Frenzy of the Japanese Literary World (Million-word milestone achieved!)

Upon hearing Kitahara Iwao's reply, Sakai Izumi froze on the spot.

Her usually gentle and clear eyes widened slightly in disbelief at that moment.

Even if she was completely unfamiliar with the complex rules of the European literary world, she was perfectly aware of the supreme divine status that the word "Nobel" represented in Japan and the entire world.

Since Yasunari Kawabata won the Nobel Prize in 1968, the Japanese literary world has not come this close to the prize for far too long.

And now, this 27-year-old Kitahara Iwao has actually knocked on the door of the highest honor in world literature with "The Collapsed Tower".

"Nobel Prize?"

Several seconds passed before Izumi Sakai finally found her voice.

His voice trembled, his breathing became rapid, and tears of excitement welled up uncontrollably in his eyes.

A few hours later, the thunderclap from across the ocean struck Tokyo.

Reuters and the BBC's urgent telegrams flooded the fax machines of major Japanese news agencies via undersea cables.

Immediately afterwards, the latest Nobel Prize odds from Ladbrokes, the UK's largest betting company, were also urgently sent to the desks of major media outlets around the world.

On this telex list that had just been spit out of the machine, Kitahara Iwao's name bypassed countless world-class literary giants who had been famous for decades, and in an almost arrogant manner, he suddenly appeared in the top three of the odds!

The "27 years old" printed after his name stands out starkly and terrifyingly among the list of veteran literary figures in their sixties and seventies.

While the list was still crackling through the fax machines of major news agencies in Tokyo, the headquarters of Shinchosha, Kitahara Iwa's stronghold, had already been set ablaze.

When the editor on night duty received a transoceanic call from a reporter stationed in Europe, he was so excited that he knocked over the coffee on the table and scrambled to the editor-in-chief's office.

In just half an hour, editor-in-chief Kenichi Sato and president Taro Murata, who should have been off work and home long ago, rushed back to the editorial department with their clothes disheveled and their shirts not even buttoned up properly.

"Has it been confirmed?! Has it been confirmed in Stockholm?!"

Murata Taro gripped the foreign media fax paper tightly, his hands trembling like a leaf.

Seeing the editor on duty still standing there in a daze, he shoved him aside, then snatched the still-connected overseas phone receiver from the table and yelled into the other side of the ocean, "This is Murata! I saw the fax you sent back!"

"I only have one question for you: has this information been verified by multiple sources?!"

"This absolutely cannot be just hearsay from those third-rate British tabloids! Professor Kitahara is only twenty-seven years old; what if it's fake news—"

The voice of the reporter stationed in Europe on the other end of the phone was even hoarseer than his, filled with a kind of oxygen-deprived excitement: "President! It's absolutely true!"

"I'm right downstairs from Reuters' London office! The French PEN, the British Literary Society, and even two external members of the Swedish Academy are privately jointly nominating me!"

Upon hearing this, Murata Taro's eyes flashed with a sharp light, and he roared, panting heavily, "What did the Swedish Academy say?"

"You know those old men in Sweden would rather die than admit the source of the list!"

"But boss, Ladbrokes' odds list is already out!"

"A sudden drop into the top three! Without extremely high-level inside information, bookmakers would never offer such odds for a young writer from the Far East!"

At this point, the reporter's voice almost trembled with emotion: "President, the entire European literary world is talking about 'The Collapsing Tower'—the whole world has seen us!"

The last few words coming through the receiver completely dispelled any remaining doubts in Murata Taro's mind.

At this moment, the area outside the editor-in-chief's office was already crowded with the first batch of employees who had rushed back overnight.

Some of them wore suits over pajamas, some reeked of alcohol and the cold wind, and some even wore slippers.

All ten people held their breath, staring intently at Murata Taro, who was holding the microphone inside the room.

Finally, Murata Taro slowly put down the receiver, turned his head, looked at the dozens of pairs of eyes in the entire editorial department staring intently at him with bloodshot eyes, and nodded vigorously.

Upon receiving this final affirmative answer, the entire Shinchosha building erupted in a roar that nearly lifted the roof off.

"Yay!"

"Long live Kitahara-sensei!"

Someone was pounding on the table like a madman, while someone else threw a stack of scrap paper that was supposed to be typed into the air.

Two young female editors who had rushed back without even having time to put on makeup collapsed to the ground, covered their faces, and burst into tears.

On this desolate autumn night, these writers witnessed a triumphant victory that could illuminate the entire nation.

Kenichi Sato ripped off the tie that was tightening around his neck and stormed out of the office like a crazed general, roaring hoarsely at the PR staff who had been called back overnight in the hallway: "Front page!"

"Let's throw all the resources into it tomorrow!"

"Not just the literature section, I want Kitahara-sensei's name to be everywhere in Japan's social and financial sections! Immediately!"

Tokyo was completely sleepless that night.

When the Kyodo News's nighttime telegraph machine suddenly started screaming incessantly, the chief editor on the night shift even thought there was a serious malfunction in the cross-border transmission line.

"Say that again?!"

He gripped the receiver tightly and jumped up from his chair, his knee slamming hard against the edge of the table due to the sudden movement.

The voice of the European-based reporter on the other end of the phone was also trembling; the static from across the ocean and his heavy breathing were clearly audible: "It's confirmed news from within the Swedish Academy! Reuters and the BBC have obtained the shortlist! Kitahara Iwao has officially entered the final shortlist for this year's Nobel Prize in Literature!"

The chief editor's Adam's apple bobbed violently.

In his office, there were only a few old typewriters making a dull hum.

On the large desk, manuscripts to be printed the next day were scattered haphazardly: a list of bankrupt small and medium-sized enterprises, tracking of bad debts in housing and residential finance, follow-up analysis of the Ministry of Finance's aggregate regulation, and several shocking accounts of "debt suicide cases" that had just been compiled by the Ministry of Social Affairs.

For the past few months, the entire Japanese press has seemed to be completely soaked in the same thick, gray atmosphere.

Bankruptcies, layoffs, defaults, bad debts, disappearances, broken families, desperate crowds kneeling in protest outside banks, and real estate company signs soaked and ruined by rain —

The editors spend their days immersed in these words stained with blood and tears, and even the volume of their voices when they speak to each other has been reduced to a minimum without them realizing it.

But this phone call from across the ocean was like a heavy hammer blow, shattering the lifelessness in the entire editorial department.

"Verify through official channels immediately!"

"Send an urgent telegram to the European branch immediately!"

"Call upon all our connections in Stockholm and London! Quickly!!"

Within minutes, this current of words surged into the headquarters of major Tokyo newspapers with overwhelming force.

Inside the Asahi Shimbun's late-night editorial department, the head of the social affairs department was hunched over, staring intently at a report about a tragic incident where a family of four committed suicide by burning charcoal due to joint guarantees, his brow furrowed deeply.

Upon hearing the news that his secretary had stumbled over to report, he froze on the spot.

Then, he grabbed the red pencil from the table used for finalizing the draft and, without hesitation, drew a huge red X on the already formatted front page proof of "Tracking Huge Bad Debts in the Housing Industry": "Withdraw the front page!"

This almost insane order would normally have terrified his subordinates.

But tonight, the editor on duty next to him didn't hesitate at all; instead, he suddenly jumped up from his chair, his tired eyes instantly bursting with uncontrollable ecstasy.

"I'll immediately notify the underground server room to shut down the servers! Even if it means overturning the typesetting table, we have to make room for Kitahara-sensei on tomorrow's headlines!"

The editor on duty was so excited his voice was trembling. He scrambled to his desk and grabbed the red internal telephone line that connected directly to the printing room.

The editor-in-chief gripped the table tightly with both hands, his bloodshot eyes already slightly red.

He looked at the editors, whose faces were contorted with fervor as the room instantly erupted like boiling water, and said with a passion he hadn't shown in months: "Tell the server room to redesign the page at all costs!"

"The bank's bad debts will still be there tomorrow, and the Ministry of Finance's bad debts won't be able to escape the day after tomorrow either."

"But for this country, which is on the verge of being driven into a dead end, Kitahara-sensei's Nobel Prize nomination is our only chance to hold our heads high tonight!"

The editorial department of the Yomiuri Shimbun, on the other hand, appeared even more resolute.

The solid wood door to the editor-in-chief's office was tightly closed, and inside, several senior executives were arguing heatedly about whether to put a vicious murder case caused by debt on the front page.

Everyone wore a numb and grim expression. Everyone knew that the manuscript was of great importance, but no one wanted to start the second day of Japan with such a desperate and bloody face.

Until the red secure phone on the table rang shrilly.

The editor-in-chief answered the phone expressionlessly, but after a few hurried words were spoken on the other end, he froze on the spot.

"Kitahara Rock?"

"Nobel Prize?"

Upon hearing these two words, the executives, who had been arguing fiercely, instantly stopped and all eyes turned to the editor-in-chief.

The editor-in-chief hung up the phone, his gaze sweeping over the exhausted colleagues in the room. Then, he slammed his hand heavily on the murder case printout and said, "Stop printing!! Tell the printing department downstairs to stop the rotary press immediately!"

"Change all the headlines! I'll go oversee the layout right now!"

The deputy editor-in-chief, usually the most rigid and cost-conscious, was so excited that he didn't even bother to adjust his glasses, which had slipped down to the tip of his nose. Like a young paparazzi who had just gotten his hands on an exclusive scoop, he ran wildly out of the office.

When this do-or-die order reached the underground engine room, several enormous steel behemoths had already begun to slowly operate with a roar.

The pungent smell of machine oil, the damp smell of ink, and the scalding heat of paper mingled in the cramped underground space.

The workers, with their arms bare, are preparing to enter the intensive formal printing process.

After the red alarm phone on the wall started ringing frantically, the person in charge of the server room snorted and answered it with a curse, but after hearing the instructions from above, the impatience on his face disappeared in an instant.

"Kitahara Rock?"

A young worker nearby, holding a wrench, leaned over alertly and asked, "Foreman, is that Kitahara-sensei, the author of 'The Collapsing Tower,' the one who gave those big bankers a heart attack with his scathing critique?!"

"Could there possibly be another Kitahara-sensei on this wretched island?!"

The person in charge of the computer room ripped the half-smoked cigarette from his lips, stared at the rotary machine that was still frantically spewing out old tragedies, and took a deep breath.

"Stop printing! Stop everything! Cut up all that bullshit murder case data that just came out as scrap paper!"

The person in charge ripped the towel off his neck and roared at the entire computer room, "Quick! I'll personally lead a team to dismantle the files and get them to send out Professor Kitahara's new manuscript right away!!"

This kind of hearty laughter, carrying the scent of earth and sweat, has been absent from the ink smell of this long-established printing factory for far too long—over the past six months.

Meanwhile, in the cultural department of the Mainichi Shimbun, a young intern reporter clutched an urgent overseas newsletter just pulled from the fax machine, his voice trembling with excitement: "Director! Professor Kitahara has really made the shortlist!"

"Although those old fogies at the Swedish Academy would never publicly admit it, the major European publishers and literary institutions have already issued a joint statement recommending it, and that's enough!"

The director of the cultural department didn't even bother to put on his suit jacket. While frantically searching through old newspaper clippings in the filing cabinet, he roared hoarsely at the entire office: "Quick! Get me all of Kitahara-sensei's resumes from the past two years!"

"The Naoki Prize, the Akutagawa Prize, the Yomiuri Book Prize, and the phenomenal book 'Never Let Me Go'—all the top book reviews, I've put them in the most prominent position on the page!"

"The Collapsing Tower must be dedicated to a separate special edition!"

"Include the entire case of the attack at the alleyway and the IRS investigation in the report!"

"But listen up, everyone: this is absolutely not gossip. Anyone whose article contains even the slightest hint of vulgar or sensational language is fired tomorrow!"

After the instruction was given, the director gripped the typesetting table tightly with both hands, looked around at his subordinates who were excitedly typing away at the typewriter, and shouted, "Hold your pens firmly in your hands!"

"I want all readers to see clearly by tomorrow morning—this is by no means a Far Eastern bestselling author who has gotten lucky and been favored by Europeans."

"This is a writer who has just been besieged by this corrupt state apparatus, using the tax bureau, conglomerate banks, and gangster knives!"

"He straightened the spine of Asians, allowing us to be greeted with the highest honors and dignity by world literature!"