Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

The heavy soundproof doors of the studio slowly closed, completely shutting out the whispers in the corridor.

Kitahara Iwao and Kume Hiroshi walked side by side into the stage, which was illuminated by mercury lamps and appeared almost deathly white.

Kume Hiroshi glanced at the young man beside him and saw that Kitahara Iwa's steps were as steady as if he were inspecting his own territory.

Meanwhile, Kijima Heihachiro, who was already seated, was resting with his eyes closed.

Today he wore a dark blue traditional haori hakama, making him look like a withered stone statue.

"Good evening, Professor Kijima. Thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to come."

Kume Hiroshi, with his signature professional smile, gave a slight bow in greeting.

However, Kijima Heihachiro didn't even lift his eyelids, as if the host who controlled Japan's TV ratings was nothing more than a wisp of air.

This blatant arrogance made the staff on site hold their breath, and Kume Hiroshi's smile froze for a moment before returning to normal, only with a hint of coldness in his eyes.

He then turned to the camera and made a gesture.

"3, 2, 1..."

The red light comes on, and the live stream begins.

In the control room, the viewership curve seemed to have been injected with stimulants, drawing a breathtaking arc on the screen.

In izakayas across Japan, in cramped single apartments, and even in front of giant LED screens on the streets of Ginza, millions of eyes are holding their breath, watching this battle between the old and new eras.

"Good evening, this is News Station. I'm Hiroshi Kume."

Kume Hiroshi's voice was steady and powerful, penetrating countless CRT televisions: "Tonight we won't talk about the consumption tax, nor will we talk about the Recruit scandal."

"Tonight, we're going to talk about a book that's keeping all of Tokyo awake."

"Some say it was the nightmare of the Heisei era, while others say it was the beginning of the literary world's decline."

"For this purpose, we invited Mr. Kitahara Iwao, the author of this book, and Mr. Kijima Heihachiro, a senior figure in the literary criticism field."

The camera cuts to the three people.

Kitahara Iwa remained calm, while Kijima Heihachiro kept a straight face, as if he were sitting next to a stinking garbage dump.

"Well then, Kijima-sensei."

After the brief introduction, Kume Hiroshi turned the microphone to Kijima Heihachiro and asked, "You once harshly criticized 'The Ring' in your column. What was your basis for that criticism?"

At this moment, Kijima Heihachiro finally opened his eyes. He didn't look at the camera or Kume Hiroshi, but stared intently at Kitahara Iwao across from him with a murky gaze as if he were looking at a dead man.

"in accordance with?"

Kijima Heihachiro snorted coldly, his withered fingers slamming heavily on the cover of "The Ring," and said, "Kitahara-kun, this kind of trick of creating panic with cheap gadgets like telephones and videotapes is, in the end, nothing more than the garbage of consumer society."

"It has no soul, no 'mono no aware' (the pathos of things) that Japanese literature should possess. You've turned words into a contagious disease; this is a desecration of literature!"

Faced with this accusation that escalated from the very beginning, Kitahara Iwa sat opposite him without showing the slightest anger. Instead, he lowered his head and chuckled softly, displaying the tolerance one would show when listening to a child's nonsense.

"Teacher Kijima."

As Kijima Heihachiro finished speaking, Kitahara Iwao finally spoke: "What you mean by 'mono no aware' is finding beauty in the gradually decaying past?"

"But I believe that fear is the oldest and strongest human emotion."

"In this era of rampant extravagance, the emptiness in people's hearts and their anxiety about the unknown are the very soil from which I write modern ghost stories."

"Literature should reflect the present, not wallow in self-pity while clinging to a moldy memorial tablet."

"shut up!"

Upon hearing Kitahara Iwa compare his pursuit of literature to a moldy memorial tablet, Kijima Heihachiro was instantly enraged. He slammed his fist on the table and roared, "Clever flatterer! A young man like you with no substance has no idea what true beauty is!"

"The duty of literature is to purify the soul and pursue eternal beauty! But your words are filled with the stench of decay, mold, and nauseating mechanical sounds!"

"You're selling your readers' fears as a commodity; that's not literature at all!"

"Your writing only provides sensory stimulation, lacking any reverence for the impermanence of life! You are a disgrace to the Heisei literary world!"

Despite the almost personal attack of the roar, Kitahara Iwa remained firmly seated in his chair, without even changing his posture.

He watched the furious old man silently, as if he were looking at a trapped beast abandoned by the times.

"Purify the soul?"

Kitahara Iwatsu caught the word, a slight smirk playing on his lips as he said with a hint of sarcasm, "Teacher Kijima, have you been in your ivory tower for too long that you can't hear the cries from below?"

Then Kitahara Iwa leaned forward slightly, his voice not loud, but clearly transmitted through the microphone to every audience member: "In Tokyo today, in this era piled high with money, how many salarymen teeter on the brink of collapse every night on the last train?"

How many housewives feel suffocated by rising prices? Isn't this anxiety, this fear of the future, more real than your romantic notions?

"you……"

Kijima Heihachiro opened his mouth, wanting to refute, but found Kitahara Iwao's words like nails stuck in his throat.

"In my novel 'The Ring,' Sadako crawls out of the television. That's not just a ghost; it's the alienation brought about by modern technology, a projection of the inner world of every modern person trapped in a cramped apartment, staring blankly at a black screen."

"Mr. Kijima, if literature becomes detached from its time and from the reader's sense of pain, what's the difference between it and a dried-up corpse in a museum?"

"Are you upholding the dignity of literature, or are you defending your crumbling, outdated right to interpretation?"

"You! You're using sophistry! Sophistry!"

Kijima Heihachiro trembled with rage, his withered finger pointing at Kitahara Iwa, but he couldn't utter a single powerful retort for a long time.

His proud classic theories appear pale and powerless in the face of Kitahara Iwao's blatant theory of resonance with the times.

Thinking of this, Kijima Heihachiro quickly turned to look at Kume Hiroshi beside him, just about to ask him to defend him.

But the next second, he saw Kume Hiroshi looking at Kitahara Iwa with a look of agreement, and even the other staff members in the entire live broadcast room kept nodding their heads.

Suddenly, an unprecedented sense of shame and panic welled up in my heart.

Did I lose the debate?

They lost to a kid who writes cheap, low-brow literature?

No! Absolutely not!

Kijima Heihachiro was breathing heavily, his eyes darting around the studio in a panic.

He desperately needed a weapon, a weapon that could completely crush Kitahara Iwao from an aesthetic standpoint and prove that pure literature still possesses an invincible power.

Just then, a thought flashed through his mind.

That name!

That name he regarded as the savior of the Heisei era, a perfect inheritor of classical aesthetics!

Thinking of this, Kijima Heihachiro's expression, which had been twisted with anger, suddenly froze for a moment. Then, his cloudy eyes rolled around and transformed into a condescending mockery, as if he had grasped the other party's fatal weakness.

At this moment, Kijima Heihachiro's breathing calmed down, and he even straightened his disheveled clothes and sat up straight again.

"Kitahara-kun."

Kijima Heihachiro let out a cold snort, his voice filled with the arrogance of someone who had already won: "You say my literature is a dried-up corpse? You say that the only thing in this era that's cheap panic like yours?"

Then Kijima Heihachiro slightly raised his chin and looked at Kitahara Iwa with a pitying gaze, saying, "That's because you're like a frog in a well, with a limited view of the sky."

"You're so arrogant, have you even bothered to read this issue of 'Literary World'?"

"I doubt someone as materialistic as you would read this."

"But even in this turbulent age, there are still true geniuses who are reaching heights that you can never attain."

Kijima Heihachiro paused, took a deep breath as if to utter a sacred incantation: "Have you heard of the name Minaminosawa?"

At this moment, upon hearing this name, Kijima Heihachiro's originally ashen face glowed red, and his tone became impassioned and sacred, as if he were reciting scriptures, intending to use this name to drive the demons before him out of the country.

"Minamino Sawa's 'The Bones of Snow' is truly a work of genius!"

"Compared to a third-rate scumbag like you who can only write videotapes to scare people, you're worlds apart!"

Upon hearing this, Kitahara Iwa's previously sharp gaze suddenly softened, and he leaned forward slightly, seemingly intrigued, saying, "Oh? Professor Kijima speaks so highly of this Mr. Minaminozawa?"

"Of course!"

Seeing Kitahara Iwa's apprehension, Kijima Heihachiro became even more smug and pressed his advantage, saying, "In his writing, he describes snowflakes falling into the palm of his hand and turning into a 'double helix' afterimage, combining the sense of the emptiness of life with the decay of nature to the extreme!"

"Especially that line, 'The double helix of snowflakes is the divine judgment on humanity's fickleness,' is simply a masterpiece of the Heisei literary world!"

Upon hearing this, the host, Hiroshi Kume, instinctively turned his gaze toward Iwao Kitahara.

Although Hiroshi Kume had not yet read "The Bones of Snow," his professional skills as a news anchor allowed him to keenly capture the poignant beauty and profound depth behind the words.

If it's that kind of writing, it certainly possesses a powerful, awe-inspiring force.

With this in mind, Kume Hiroshi expected to see a face that was either ashamed of being outmatched or angry at being publicly humiliated.

However, the moment his gaze fell upon Kitahara Iwa, Kume Hiroshi's heart clenched.

He was astonished to see that, under the spotlight, Kitahara Iwa's lips were slowly curving upwards, outlining a chillingly elegant arc.

This is by no means a defeated person's bitter smile.

Rather, it is the patient hunter, standing on the edge of a silent abyss, watching his prey, in the most perfect posture of its life, proudly and deliberately step into the trap, revealing...

Cruel pleasure.

"Teacher Kijima."

Kitahara Iwao raised his head, looked at Kijima Heihachiro opposite him, and said in an extremely gentle tone, "Since you admire that description so much, then... have you truly understood 'The Bones of Snow'?"

"What do you mean?"

Kijima Heihachiro frowned, feeling offended once again.

"No one understands Minami Sawano better than me!"

Faced with such a response, Kitahara Iwa's smile deepened.

He didn't speak immediately, but slowly reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

Under the watchful eyes of everyone present, Kitahara Iwa pulled out two neatly folded printed originals.

Then Kitahara Iwa placed them side by side on the table and said, "Teacher Kijima,"

"That poignant lament about the impermanence of life that you mentioned, in my initial conception, was actually written like this..."

Kitahara Iwa looked down at the manuscript and slowly read aloud:

"In that endless cold, snowflakes form graceful spirals. This is the embodiment of life's primal command at this moment, as adenine and thymine complete their final dehydration coupling in the frozen environment..."

As one biological term after another came out, Kijima Heihachiro's pupils began to tremble violently, and an ominous premonition gripped his throat.

Kitahara Iwa didn't pause, and unfolded the thinner manuscript on the right.

This is the original copy of "The Bones of Snow" published in this issue of "Literary World".

Then Kitahara pushed the title pages of both manuscripts in front of the camera at the same time, allowing the close-up shot to capture every detail.

"Please look."

"The one on the left is my first draft of 'The Ring 2: Spiral'."

"The one on the right is 'The Bones of Snow,' which you regard as a masterpiece."

Under high-definition lenses, the handwriting, strokes, and pressure points on the two manuscripts are completely identical, providing irrefutable evidence that they were written by the same person.

The only difference is the signature area in the lower right corner.

The left side reads: [Written by: Kitahara Iwa].

The one on the right, written in the exact same handwriting, reads: [Written by: Minamino Sawa].

The studio fell into a deathly silence, broken only by the hum of the air conditioner vents.

"What...what nonsense are you talking about..."

Seeing this, Kijima Heihachiro took a sudden step back, even knocking over the chair behind him due to the force of the movement: "This...this is impossible..."

"Don't you understand?"

Kitahara Iwa stood up, looking down at the literary veteran, and said, "Minamino Sawa is just my pseudonym."

"This work, which you praised as a 'literary masterpiece,' is actually a piece of hard science fiction about viral evolution that I casually dissected from the second part of 'The Ring,' titled 'Spiral.'"

"What you're advocating isn't literature, but merely a facade to conceal your ignorance!"

"You can't see the true nature of this era at all; you're just venting your long-depleted imagination through a filter of the old times!"

Hearing Kitahara Iwa's undisguised words and seeing the two signatures with identical handwriting, Kijima Heihachiro's face instantly turned from red to green, then all color drained from his face, becoming like a deathly pale mask.

He opened his mouth wide, wanting to shout, wanting to refute, but only a hoarse, gurgling sound like an old bellows could be heard from his throat.

The withered finger pointing at Kitahara Iwa was twitching violently, as if it were pointing not at someone else, but at a demon that was devouring its soul.

In that instant, an overwhelming sense of absurdity and shame overwhelmed him like a tsunami.

His aesthetic logic, which he had been so proud of for half a century, and his supposedly discerning eye that could see through all literary pretenses, were so incomprehensible that he couldn't even distinguish between the most basic scientific rubbish and literary treasures.

They treated the cold, hard formulas of the virus as judgments, and the enemy's bait as a bible of salvation.

Not only that.

Kijima Heihachiro also realized with despair that the flashing red light next to him meant that millions of eyes across Japan were watching him.

Just now, he used all the reputation and prestige he had accumulated in his life to personally weave the most dazzling crown for the "trash writer" he hated, and then respectfully placed it on the other person's head in front of all of Japan.

This is hardly a debate.

This was essentially a seppuku performance meticulously directed by this young man and personally carried out by Kijima Heihachiro.

"Ugh... Ah..."

Thinking of this, Kijima Heihachiro's chest heaved violently. He couldn't catch his breath, and like a snowflake whose bones had been removed, he slumped into a chair in the deathly silent studio.