Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

Chapter 209 Bei Yuanyan’s original intention

Three days after the release of "The Long Road," Japanese literary critics and scholars finally closed the book one after another, completing their reading and analysis of this masterpiece.

Compared to the torrent of emotions that erupted among the public on the very first night, the rigorous literary world needs more time to digest and process this heavy sentiment.

With the finalization of the first batch of in-depth book reviews, the editorial departments of major established literary magazines almost simultaneously entered a state of overload operation.

The phone at the editorial office of "Group Portraits" rang from afternoon until late at night, with editors constantly contacting various critics at their desks.

At the discussion meeting, the editor-in-chief of "Literary World" made the final decision to allocate all the most important pages to "The Long Road".

The commentary section of "Literary Spring and Autumn" adjusted its table of contents overnight.

The editors laid out a list of critics who had written about Kitahara Iwa over the past few years on the table while patiently waiting by the phone for the columnists' deadlines.

As Kitahara Iwa's stronghold, Shincho's response was the most direct.

Kenichi Sato personally stood in front of the typesetting machine to confirm the name of the special feature:

After the Long Road

In the past, the Japanese literary world has never denied Kitahara Iwao's formidable talent.

With his accurate predictions of the bursting of the bubble in "The Cry" and "The Collapsing Tower," Kitahara Iwao demonstrates a chilling insight and writing skill.

However, some traditional critics still stubbornly insist on categorizing him as a "writer of bubble-themed works".

They acknowledge Kitahara Iwa's keen insight and profound understanding, but also naturally assume that Kitahara Iwa's success largely depended on the grand backdrop of the era's collapse.

It was the devastating fire that caused Japan's economic collapse that gave rise to the tragic tension in his writing.

This argument, which deeply links his literary achievements to the "historical context," had been subtly present even as "The Collapsing Tower" caused a sensation.

But after "The Long Road" was published, all the voices that tried to limit him with the subject matter disappeared without a trace.

Because in this book, Kitahara Iwao deliberately abandoned all the real-world conflicts that he could have leveraged.

Throughout the entire novel, there are no lists of bank debt collectors, no bureaucratic scandals in the Ministry of Finance, and no insider details about bad debts in housing projects.

Kitahara Iwao stripped away all the social symbols that could easily stir up public emotions, stripping everything down to just a father and son.

Ashes filled the sky, and a highway that seemed to stretch on forever.

However, it is precisely this long, gray road, stripped of all the veneer of any era, that weighs more heavily on the hearts of Japanese readers than any financial scandal.

Faced with this textual power that is both extremely pure and extremely repressed, many critics who are used to analyzing social issues are at a loss for words.

Ultimately, it was Kenzaburo Oe, who submitted his manuscript first, who set the tone for this upheaval in the literary world with an extremely calm book review.

This internationally renowned literary giant published his short review in *Gunzo* magazine, with a title of only six characters:

Ethics in Ruins

The article is short, but its weight is immense.

During this period, Kenzaburo Oe did not capitalize on the "Nobel Prize in Literature" hype, nor did he crudely cram *The Long Road* into the cheap framework of post-apocalyptic science fiction. Instead, he directly addressed the core issue from the outset: "The truly terrifying aspect of *The Long Road* lies not in how desolate its depiction of the apocalypse is, nor in how grand its imagery of ruins is. What it truly questions is whether, once all the order that maintains human dignity has completely collapsed, people are still willing to treat another person as a human being."

Oe then pointed out Kitahara Iwao's astonishing literary transformation: "In the past, 'The Collapsing Tower' was a judgment of an era."

"But 'The Long Road' turns to gaze at those who are trapped under the rubble and barely survive after the collapse of an era."

"This step of turning around is far more difficult and greater than continuing to swing the knife forward."

Kenzaburo Oe's short commentary was quickly reprinted by major media outlets.

Many readers only realized upon reading this that the impact of "The Long Road" had long surpassed the simple father-son relationship.

It is forcing every Japanese person struggling with debt, bankruptcy, and shame to confront an unavoidable question—

When life has been stripped down to its most unsightly and wretched state, are you still willing to hold onto the last bit of human dignity?

Are you still willing to hold the hand of those around you tightly in a world that is gradually falling into chaos, so that you don't sink along with them?

Meanwhile, Kobo Abe's article was published in a special issue of Shincho.

Compared to Kenzaburo Oe's weighty style, Kobo Abe's title is sharper:

People Behind the System

His writing remains as restrained as ever, carrying a kind of surgical rationality: "Nation, law, currency, profession, residence, household registration—these social shells that construct the identity of modern people are stripped away one by one by Kitahara Iwao in 'The Long Road'."

"The father and son in the book have no names. Precisely because they have no names, they can be anyone."

"When all social systems have turned to ashes, what will be left of humanity?"

In the middle of the article, Kobo Abe wrote an assertion that was quickly widely quoted: "The Long Road is not simply a post-apocalyptic novel."

"What it's actually about is whether people can still regard another person as one of their own after all the institutions of civilization have failed."

This statement silenced many critics who were accustomed to categorizing works.

In the past, they always tried to frame a work with an existing set of literary coordinates: social realism, pure literature, apocalyptic allegory, or a trauma narrative of the bubble era.

But Kobo Abe's few words easily brushed away these complicated labels.

He objectively awakened the literary world: the true power of "The Long Road" does not lie in borrowing the shell of any kind of "genre literature", but in stripping away all the external disguises that modern society has given people, pushing everyone back to the most primitive and most severe ethical predicament.

Ryu Murakami's comment came a little later.

However, as soon as his article was published, it immediately grabbed the public's attention with its aggressive and straightforward style.

And the title also carries his usual arrogance and provocation:

I thought he had sheathed his sword.

The opening paragraph, as always, reveals his familiar irony and sharpness: "To be honest, I was a little disappointed at first. I thought Kitahara Iwa would take advantage of the momentum of 'The Collapsing Tower' to continue to corner the Ministry of Finance and the bankers. I wanted to see these beneficiaries of the old system bleed."

This slightly mocking opening is indeed very much in line with Ryu Murakami's style.

But as the article progressed, he abandoned his cynicism, and his writing gradually became more somber: "But halfway through, I admitted I was wrong. Kitahara Iwa didn't sheathe his sword. He merely removed the sword from the Ministry of Finance's throat and instead cut open that long-dead place in each of our hearts."

Ryu Murakami pointed out incisively that the tears people shed while reading were not simply out of sympathy for the father and son in the book, but also because they glimpsed their own defeat in the reflection of the ruins.

"The bubble era taught us to devour people. It devoured people with loans, with guarantees, with family responsibilities, and with so-called dignity."

"The cruelest thing about The Long Road is that it no longer allows us to comfortably shift responsibility to the system and bureaucracy."

"It's asking us: when this world started to devour people, did you yourself ever open your mouth?"

This provocative commentary immediately sparked considerable controversy among readers.

But it is precisely this ruthless dissection that exposes the self-pitying facade of many people.

Many readers who are used to putting themselves in the position of victims silently put down the newspaper and fell silent when they saw the final interrogation.

Haruki Murakami's article, however, chose a completely different approach.

He did not discuss grand contemporary issues, nor did he offer definitive sociological conclusions like the previous speakers.

His essays were published in *Literary World*, with titles that carried his unique sense of everyday life and lightness:

The Sound of the Refrigerator at Night

The article begins with a simple account of the night he spent reading "The Long Road" alone.

"When I was reading late into the night, I heard the refrigerator in the kitchen make a soft sound. The sound was so faint that it would be almost impossible to notice in everyday life."

"But at this moment of reading 'The Long Road,' this mechanical hum becomes exceptionally clear."

"It suddenly occurred to me that in many homes late at night, there may be sounds like the refrigerator cooling, the wife's sighs as she turns over, the child's breathing after falling asleep, the unopened overdue payment notices in the mailbox in the hallway, and the old leather shoes that you still have to wear to go out the next morning by the entrance."

Haruki Murakami wrote that what truly touches people about "The Long Road" is precisely its lack of crying and shouting.

Kitahara Iwao's writing maintains a quiet, understated quality from beginning to end: the ashes are quiet, the highway is quiet, and even the father's desperate protection is quiet.

It is precisely this almost unusual quiet that allows readers to hear the weariness in their own homes that was originally covered up by daily trivialities.

"Many novels tend to portray disasters in a dramatic way."

Haruki Murakami wrote at the end of the article: "But Kitahara Iwao wrote about the disaster very lightly. So lightly that the reader has to stop to realize that it is actually the sound of their own real life slowly falling down."

This article lacks Kenzaburo Oe's solemnity, Kobo Abe's detachment, and Ryu Murakami's poignant feeling.

However, it is most widely circulated among ordinary readers.

Many people cut out this page and neatly insert it into their own copy of "The Long Road".

After reading this essay, they understood why they would always look at their sleeping family members when they closed the book late at night.

With the publication of reviews by these writers, the literary characterization of "The Long Road" in the Japanese literary world has finally become completely clear.

Thus, "The Long Road" transcended the scope of a bestseller or a social phenomenon, and was truly established by the Japanese literary world as a literary masterpiece that transcends time and directly addresses the universal human condition.

This complete consolidation of their literary status, ironically, plunged the bureaucrats of Xiaguan into a subtle anxiety.

People from the Ministry of Education and the Agency for Cultural Affairs began to get restless.

Inside the conference room, several senior bureaucrats sat formally around a long table.

Scattered on the table were sales reports for "The Long Road," front-page clippings from European media, and several top-secret documents on "the restoration of Japan's international cultural image."

Following the collapse of the bubble economy, Japan's "economic myth" overseas is rapidly crumbling.

Mountains of bad debts, a dysfunctional bureaucratic system, and the successive collapses of century-old companies—things that were once touted as "Japanese success" and boasted about to the world are now becoming a laughing stock in the international community.

But at this very moment, Kitahara Iwa was at the height of his power.

As a young writer nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature, he not only shocked Europe with "The Collapsed Tower," but also resonated with the Japanese people with "The Long Road."

The international reputation associated with this name is an extremely tempting political asset for the Japanese government, which desperately needs to save face.

A section chief from the Cultural Affairs Agency adjusted his glasses and tentatively broke the silence: "Perhaps we could take the lead in organizing a high-level cultural exchange seminar. The theme could be 'Japanese Literature Going Global'."

Another official immediately nodded in agreement: "We can invite Professor Kitahara, Professor Oe, and several well-known overseas translators. If Professor Kitahara is willing to attend as an official representative, it will greatly help repair our international image."

A representative from the Cabinet's Information Office put it more bluntly: "Currently, overseas media are focused on our financial bad debts every day. If we could create a series of cultural features centered around Kitahara Iwa, subtly shifting international attention to our 'literary heritage' and 'national resilience,' it would be a significant buffer for the government leadership."

In the conference room, everyone tacitly used the most respectable political terminology, but everyone knew perfectly well that they desperately needed to use Kitahara Iwa's halo to whitewash the situation.

Just a few months ago, this same massive bureaucratic machine tacitly approved the National Tax Agency's forced search of the Kitahara Iwa apartment and condoned the bank's threat to cut off loans to Shinchosha.

Even after the attack at the alley entrance, the Metropolitan Police Department's first reaction was to try to downplay the incident as a simple "attempted robbery."

Now that Kitahara Iwa has become Japan's most dazzling cultural symbol in the world, they immediately put on a gentle and refined face, attempting to package it as "the pride of Japanese culture."

After all, in Xiaguan's survival logic, there are no grudges or farces, only absolute "utility".

A few days later, the bureaucratic invitation was delivered to Shinchosha.

When Sato Kenichi received the document, he only glanced at it a few times before his expression became extremely strange.

But instead of asking someone else to do it, he stuffed the documents into his briefcase and drove himself to his apartment in the port area.

Izumi Sakai opened the door for him and whispered that Kitahara-sensei had been sitting in the study for the entire morning.

Kenichi Sato pushed open the door and went in, where he saw Iwata Kitahara sitting at his desk, looking down and reading something.

On the large solid wood desk, a small mountain of letters had already been piled up.

"Teacher Kitahara, you should take a rest." Kenichi Sato walked to the table, his tone tinged with the fatigue of several sleepless nights, but even more so with barely concealed excitement. "I just came from the printing plant. The application for the third reprint of 'The Long Road' has been approved, and the total sales are about to break six million copies. Now, almost every physical bookstore in Japan is treating your book as its prized possession."

At this point, Sato Ken paused, a genuine respect in his eyes, and said, "And have you read the book reviews by Mr. Oe and Mr. Abe? In today's literary world, no one dares to define you by your subject matter anymore."

After listening to the report, Kitahara Iwa didn't respond to the conversation about sales figures or the literary world. Instead, he gently pushed a piece of paper in his hand to the side of the table.

"Sato-kun, these on the table are a bit heavier than the number six million copies."

Kenichi Sato looked down.

It was a crumpled piece of paper with the header of a bank's collection notice printed on the back.

The front side features lines of handwriting that are illegible due to shaky hands.

Not just this one.

Kenichi Sato's gaze swept across the table, where stacks of letters lay in various handwritings, some from unemployed employees and others from families on the verge of bankruptcy.

There are no grand literary discussions between the lines; they are just fragmented musings about how ordinary people in dire straits survived the previous night with the help of a book.

Looking at these letters, which exuded weariness and a sense of everyday life, Kenichi Sato suddenly felt that the contents of his briefcase seemed particularly ridiculous.

Upon seeing this, Kenichi Sato took a deep breath, then unzipped his jacket and handed over the document.

"Professor Kitahara, this is from the Ministry of Education, requesting your attendance at an official cultural exchange event."

Kitahara Iwa stopped sorting through the letters, took them from him, and casually asked, "What's the subject?"

Kenichi Sato answered truthfully: "Japan's cultural contributions to the world."

The study was quiet for a few seconds.

Outside the window, the cold wind of early winter blew through the glass curtain wall, making a low, rumbling sound.

Kitahara Iwa opened the letter and glanced at it.

The wording on the paper is very neat and tidy.

Culture, exchange, global contribution, national spirit—each word shines brightly.

Looking at these words, Kitahara Iwa easily saw through the schemes of the bureaucrats in Kasumigaseki:

The Ministry of Finance and the Ministry of Education are simply trying to use "The Long Road" and their current international reputation to elevate themselves as a cultural banner to whitewash the financial collapse.

The other party arranged everything in an extremely respectable manner, as if the forced searches and violent suppression carried out against me by the authorities over the past few months had never happened.

Kitahara Iwa didn't even finish turning the first page before casually closing the gold-embossed envelope and tossing it into the trash can next to his desk, as if it were a useless piece of paper.

"Please refuse for me."

Kitahara Iwao picked up the reader's letter from the table again and said, "Just say I have to write and don't have time to attend."

Kenichi Sato looked at Iwata Kitahara, as if trying to confirm whether he had misheard.

"Just like that, you refuse?"

Kitahara Iwa nodded slightly and said, "That's settled."

Kenichi Sato stared at Kitahara Iwa for a moment, then suddenly laughed.

The smile was faint, yet it conveyed a rare sense of exhilaration.

In the world of fame and fortune, Kenichi Sato has seen too many people become slick and worldly after achieving fame, gradually assimilated by the system.

But Kitahara Iwao did not. He remained Kitahara Iwao who valued the suffering of his readers more than official honors.

"I see."

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