Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

Chapter 212 The Nobel Prize Controversy

The rain in Stockholm is colder than in Tokyo.

As November approached, the cobblestone street outside the Swedish Academy headquarters was darkened by the rain, and pedestrians hurried past the building, wrapped tightly in their coats.

Few people know that inside this seemingly quiet building, a debate that could change the landscape of world literature has been going on for two whole hours.

Inside the century-old conference room, eighteen permanent academicians sat on either side of a long table.

Old portraits hung on the wall, and heavy curtains blocked out the sound of rain outside, but could not hide the increasingly tense atmosphere in the conference room.

There are less than 72 hours left until the final announcement of the Nobel Prize in Literature.

And Kitahara Iwa's name is being repeatedly pushed up and pulled down on this long table.

At the start of the meeting, the first to raise objections was a very senior academician with white hair.

He sat on the left side of the long table, his silver-white hair neatly combed, with several newspapers that had just been delivered from London, Paris, and New York in front of him.

As soon as the permanent secretary finished reading the shortlist, he slammed the newspaper heavily onto the center of the mahogany table with a cold face.

The pages were scattered.

The titles above are increasingly jarring.

Random House's multi-million pound gamble on Kitahara Rock

European publishers hunt for the copyright of "The Long Road"

Hollywood has its sights set on Far Eastern geniuses.

From Tokyo to London: The Capital Frenzy Behind Iwao Kitahara's New Work

The white-haired academician pressed his finger on one of the Financial Times copies and said irritably, "Gentlemen."

"We are selecting the highest honor in human literature."

"This is not an endorsement of Penguin Random House's year-end financial statements."

As the white-haired academician finished speaking, everyone in the conference room immediately focused their attention on him.

Several academicians who supported Kitahara Iwa could hear the dissatisfaction in the white-haired academician's tone, and immediately frowned and looked at him.

But the white-haired academician didn't give them a chance to interrupt. He tapped the newspaper on the table and said with undisguised sarcasm, "This twenty-seven-year-old is indeed talented."

I admit that.

"You can take a look at these things."

The white-haired academician pushed the newspaper forward as he spoke.

"The multi-million pound bidding war, the studio frenzy, and even the so-called 'private circulation within European intellectual circles' all reeked of a carefully orchestrated marketing ploy by London and New York publishers."

At this point, the white-haired academician sneered and said, "This is clearly a global public relations show meticulously planned by those profit-driven publishers in London and New York to hype up the copyright of their new book."

Then the white-haired academician looked around and said, "If we award him the prize at this critical juncture when we are swept up in the frenzy of capital, the reputation of the Academy of Arts, which has been intact for more than a hundred years, will be torn to shreds by those newspapers."

"The whole world will think that the Nobel Prize in Literature succumbs to the pound, the dollar, and Hollywood checks."

As soon as those words were spoken, the air in the conference room seemed to sink.

This defense of "literary purity" struck a nerve with the Swedish Academy.

The white-haired academician was not the only one who opposed Kitahara Iwa.

Another senior academician sitting next to him slowly spoke up: "Not only that, everyone, Kitahara Iwao is too young."

"Twenty-seven years old."

Looking at Kitahara Iwa's resume on the table, he said, "I don't deny his amazing talent, but that's precisely what worries me the most."

"The Nobel Prize in Literature represents the absolute pinnacle of secular honor. For a writer still in their creative prime, reaching that pinnacle at the age of twenty-seven—is it a crowning achievement or a curse?"

A brief silence fell over the meeting room.

The elderly academician clasped his hands together and continued, "If he accepts this trophy now, will he be able to withstand the pressure brought by such an extreme halo in the long decades to come?"

"Under the most discerning gaze of the world, will he still have the courage to overturn his own work and write a piece even greater than 'The Long Road'?"

"There are too many geniuses in literary history who were crushed by top honors too early and never made any more achievements."

The old academician shook his head and gave his final conclusion: "If Kitahara Iwa is truly a giant destined to lead the times, he won't lack this little bit of time."

"We should allow him to continue to mature and grow, rather than prematurely shutting down his potential to climb to even greater heights with a top prize."

Upon hearing the opposition from the white-haired academicians and other senior academicians, the supporters quickly retaliated.

A female academician who has long been dedicated to the study of Asian literature put down her pen, looked at the two elderly people opposite her, and said: "The frenzy of capital is the calculation of publishers, but the responsibility of the Swedish Academy is to penetrate the noise and measure the true weight of the text."

She then turned to the elderly academician who was worried that Kitahara Iwa was too young and retorted directly: "As for age—sir, a writer's maturity is never calculated based on how many years he has lived."

"A great soul does not need to prove itself with gray hair."

She then opened the review file in front of her and continued, "You worry that he's been overwhelmed by the honors and doubt that he lacks the time to reflect. But look at what he has already written."

"Never Let Me Go explores the deepest ethical dilemmas and human dignity within a cruel system."

"The Scream is like a scalpel, precisely dissecting the malice deep within human nature."

"The Collapsed Tower, on the other hand, uses a rare historical perspective to depict how modern capitalism devours ordinary people."

The female academician tapped the file, her voice resolute: "These three works, with their vastly different themes, each exude a startling level of sophistication and restraint."

"Do you really think this is a naive newcomer who needs time to 'mature'?"

The white-haired academician raised his eyes, stating unequivocally, "I admit that *The Collapsing Tower* is an excellent work of social documentary fiction."

"But we all know that the reason it has sparked such a fervent discussion in the Western world is largely due to a hidden cultural arrogance."

"Western readers were happy to see bank failures, bureaucratic scandals, and a wave of suicides in that book, and were happy to watch the Japanese economic miracle crumble in a detached, detached manner."

At this point, the white-haired academician's gaze swept across both sides of the long table, and he spoke again: "This certainly has a strong sense of the times. But the Nobel Prize in Literature requires more than just a sense of the times."

"Kitahara Iwao's writing is indeed sharp enough, but does he possess a human compassion that transcends time and race?"

"Has the literary core of a 27-year-old who rose to fame by exposing social pathologies and has now been forcibly elevated to a pedestal by capital in New York and London truly accumulated enough depth to warrant a Nobel Prize?"

These rhetorical questions were so weighty that no one in the meeting room responded for a moment.

In the brief silence, the female academician did not back down and pulled out the complete translation of "The Long Road".

"You are asking for compassion that transcends time and race."

The female academician looked at the white-haired academician and slowly said, "You question his over-reliance on the pain points of the times in Japanese society."

"Then please set aside the so-called marketing in the newspaper and truly open this new work."

As she spoke, the female academician pushed the thick translation manuscript to the center of the long table.

"In this book, there is no Japan, no Ministry of Finance, no economic bubble, not even a single specific place name or personal name."

"There is only endless wasteland, ashes, and a father who desperately clings to the last embers of humanity to protect his child."

The female academician's voice was extremely penetrating in the quiet conference room.

"You asked him if he possesses compassion for all humanity?"

"After stripping away all the historical context, social wonders, and labels of civilization, this book, 'The Long Road,' is the best answer."

Then, she gently pressed her fingers on the manuscript of "The Long Road" and looked at the two elderly academicians opposite her.

"Gentlemen, we don't need to wait for him to reflect, nor do we need to worry that the highest honor will seal off his future."

"Because at this age, the depth of his writings has already reached its peak."

A brief silence fell over the conference room as the female academician pushed the translated manuscript to the center of the long table.

In fact, every permanent academician present had received this manuscript privately through their own channels over the past few days.

They had already read "The Long Road".

At today's meeting, however, the overwhelming and glaring newspaper articles about capital speculation made them deliberately avoid discussing the text itself, instead using "defending the purity of the Nobel Prize" and "he is too young" as arrogant defenses.

The female academician's gaze swept over the crowd: "Everyone, I know you have all read it. In private, in our studies late at night, we have all been deeply stung by it."

"So now, please put those newspapers aside and face this work directly."

As the female academician finished speaking, the permanent secretary, who had been sitting in the main seat, finally moved.

He silently reached out and pushed aside the newspapers printed with exorbitant copyright prices, guaranteed distribution, and Hollywood themes, revealing the copy of "The Long Road."

"Ladies and gentlemen, those publishers' checks are indeed dirty, and the noise from the media is tiresome."

The permanent secretary's voice was not loud, but it clearly reached the ears of everyone present: "As members of the Swedish Academy, when we judge a writer, the only judge we can rely on is the honesty we show when we read him."

The meeting room was extremely quiet.

The white-haired academician looked down at the photocopy in front of him, his expression changing several times.

In fact, he knew better than anyone the significance of this copy.

A few nights ago, when he opened it with scrutiny and critical eye, he originally wanted to find traces of catering to the Western market, to find cheap apocalyptic sentimentality, to find Hollywood-style heroism, and to find everything that could prove that "capital carnival is nothing more than this".

But he found nothing.

The book completely abandons the grand feat of saving the world and the origin of the disaster, and is also reluctant to show any thrilling conspiracies or apocalyptic spectacles.

The entire novel is stripped down to its most brutally minimalist backdrop: a gloomy sky, scorched forests, a dilapidated shopping cart, and a father and son struggling on an endless highway.

The novel is quiet to the point of being cold.

Kitahara Iwa didn't explain where the catastrophe that destroyed the world came from; he simply let the father and son keep walking through the ashes.

Hunger drew closer little by little, and the cold pressed down bit by bit.

Every abandoned house is like a trap, and every bite of food is like a tiny pardon snatched from the clutches of death.

The white-haired academician recalled the scene when he was sitting in his study: his originally straight back gradually slumped down a little.

Holding the pen, I hesitated for a long time before writing a single critical comment next to the manuscript.

He saw that in a world where cannibalism had begun, the seriously ill father suppressed his cough to avoid frightening his child, and could only respond to the bewildered child's repeated, terrified questions about "whether we are good people" with the words, "We must carry fire."

When you turn to the last page and read about the man handing over his last embers on the cold, gray seashore, this proud academic giant has already utterly collapsed in a literary sense.

Today, however, as a gatekeeper of the system who adheres to tradition, he tries to use the "stench of capital speculation" to cover up the panic of being conquered by a 27-year-old.

At this moment, the cold rain is still falling outside the window.

The silence in the meeting room was finally broken by the voice of the permanent secretary.

He didn't press the white-haired academician, whose expression was changing, but instead picked up the shortlist for this year's Nobel Prize in Literature.

"Gentlemen, since we are all talking about the purity of literature, let's take a look honestly at this year's competitors."

The permanent secretary, Zi Guang, glanced at both sides of the long table and said, "This year's list includes giants we are extremely familiar with, and who are even destined to enter the history of literature."

"Nadine Gordimer of South Africa. With courageous and epic strokes, she chronicles the tearing apart of human society and the struggle for conscience under apartheid. Her texts represent the most profound engagement with the painful realities of contemporary politics."

"Milan Kundera of the Czech Republic. He explored the weight of Eastern European history, dissecting the nothingness of human existence, memory, and forgetting to the extreme."

"And there's Derek Walcott of Saint Lucia. His long poem, Omeros, has just written a magnificent postcolonial epic of Caribbean history."

The permanent secretary gently placed the list of names of literary masters next to the copy of "The Long Road".

"They are all impeccable top-notch writers. Gordimer examines the wounds of a nation, Kundera deconstructs the absurdity of history, and Walcott reshapes forgotten national myths."

"To be honest, before reading 'The Long Road,' many of us—including myself—firmly believed that this year's Nobel Prize in Literature should have been awarded to one of the three of them."

The permanent secretary paused for a moment, then continued, "But when we put these masterpieces, which represent the highest level of contemporary literature, together with Kitahara Iwao's *The Long Road*, what exactly did you feel while reading them late at night?"

No one spoke in the meeting room.

The permanent secretary provided the answer that lingered in everyone's mind, yet was something that traditional arrogance prevented them from acknowledging: "It's a shattering of dimensions."

These words struck like a heavy hammer in the quiet, century-old conference room.

"Gordimer, Kundera, Walcott—they all wrote about the most profound pain, resistance, and struggle within the framework of human civilization."

The permanent secretary's palm pressed heavily on "The Long Road".

"But Kitahara Iwa, he directly shattered the framework of civilization!"

"He stripped away the nation, stripped away politics, stripped away history, stripped away segregation and ideology! He threw all of humanity directly into a desolate ruin where even civilization no longer exists!"

"In the absolute despair where even cannibalism was happening, he didn't give a long speech, but simply used the story of a father who died protecting his child to show us the last faint but never-extinguished spark of humanity."

The permanent secretary looked at the silent white-haired academicians and the old academicians opposite him and said, word by word, "If other masters are diagnosing a specific kind of suffering in our time, then Kitahara Iwa is writing an apocalypse for the survival of all human civilization."

"Ladies and gentlemen, faced with such a text, faced with such human empathy that transcends all regions and races, if we were to shut him out simply because we were jealous of his age or disgusted by the money-grubbing of those London merchants—"

The permanent secretary slowly straightened up and gave his final conclusion: "That would be the greatest disgrace the Swedish Academy has ever suffered in a century."

"Now, let's begin voting."