Chapter 98 The Shincho-sha's Move
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Upon hearing the words "simultaneously nominated for the Naoki Prize and the Akutagawa Prize," Kitahara Iwa's body involuntarily tensed up.
For any writer, the allure of having these two trophies, representing the highest will in the Japanese literary world, placed side by side is no less than that of a nuclear explosion.
Even though Kitahara Iwa possessed the experience of two lifetimes, and even though he could remain unmoved by the billions of dollars in business empire that Kadokawa Haruki had just laid down a few minutes earlier.
But at that moment, Kitahara Iwa's heart still skipped a beat uncontrollably.
After all, this is a miracle of historical significance.
This temptation is too big.
Thinking of this, Kitahara Iwa took a deep breath, picked up the teacup, and brought it to his lips very naturally, trying to calm himself down by drinking water.
But the next second, Kitahara Iwa's movements froze.
The slightly cool rim of the ceramic cup pressed against my lips, yet not a single drop of tea was poured out.
It was only then that Kitahara Iwa suddenly realized that the teacup he was holding was already empty.
At that moment, a very subtle pause filled the air.
An uncontrollable embarrassment appeared on Kitahara Iwa's face.
Then, without making a sound, he cleared his throat and, pretending nothing had happened, put the teacup back in its place.
Sitting opposite him, Kenichi Sato naturally took in Kitahara Iwa's every move.
However, he did not expose Kitahara Iwa's actions, but the corners of his mouth couldn't help but turn up slightly.
To conceal this fleeting awkwardness, Kitahara Iwa stood up and slowly walked to the French windows.
Looking at Tokyo under the sunlight, several names flashed through Kitahara Iwao's mind.
In the history of Japanese literature over the past half-century, there have been instances where writers appeared on the shortlists for both the Naoki Prize and the Akutagawa Prize.
As far back as 1952, Seicho Matsumoto, a master of the social school of thought, sparked a fierce competition between the two award camps with his "Biography of a Certain Ogura Diary".
More recently, in 1958, Shohei Kitagawa received two nominations in the same year for his film "Water Wall," a rare occurrence.
But without exception, these geniuses all ended up empty-handed, or, like Seicho Matsumoto, were forced to compromise and choose only one option.
Because the judges of pure literature look down on your label of popular literature, while the camp of popular literature dislikes that you have too much of the self-indulgent sourness of pure literature.
Each of the two factions guards its own territory, and neither is willing to bestow the highest honor upon someone who straddles both sides.
This has been an unspoken rule in the Japanese literary world for decades.
In this state of mind, Kitahara Iwao pondered his work.
Love Letter focuses on the extreme and pure redemption of the souls of marginalized people in Shinjuku, struggling in the mud and death, which perfectly matches the demand of pure literature for the depth of human nature and the core of tragedy.
The novel "The Cry" offers a penetrating analysis of the pain points in Japanese society, possessing undeniable power within the realm of popular literature.
If these two works could actually be considered by their respective judges at the same time...
I have an 80% chance of winning both of these jackpots!
Once he crosses that unspoken threshold, he will break the long-standing unspoken rules of the Japanese literary world.
Then the name "Kitahara Iwa" will become an outlier in the publishing industry that cannot be easily defined, or even a brand new benchmark.
Thinking of this, Kitahara Iwa turned around and looked at Sato Kenichi on the sofa.
"Editor-in-Chief Sato".
Kitahara Iwa said softly, "I'll trouble Shincho-sha to keep a close eye on the judging process for both awards over the next few days."
Kenichi Sato met Kitahara Iwa's gaze and nodded very solemnly.
"Teacher Kitahara, please don't worry."
Kenichi Sato calmly replied, "Shincho Society is using all its resources to keep a close eye on these two awards for you!"
At four o'clock that afternoon, in the president's office on the third floor of the Shinchosha building, Taro Murata stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, holding a cup of freshly brewed sencha.
Just now, when Kenichi Sato walked into the editorial department with an S-class contract whose royalties had been revised, the nerves of the entire Shinchosha, which had been tense all day, finally relaxed.
Kitahara Iwa resisted Kadokawa Haruki's attempts to lure him away with capital, leaving the collected volumes of "The Cry" with Shinchosha.
Taro Murata took a sip of hot tea, then turned and sat back down behind his large desk.
Two extremely important documents were laid out on the desktop.
On the left is a table showing the production schedule and distribution across all channels for the first print run of 500,000 copies of the standalone edition of "The Cry".
On the right is a special layout publicity plan that Shinchosha's publicity and planning department rushed to produce overnight.
Murata Taro's gaze lingered on the proposal on the right for a moment, then he pulled out his pen and signed his name in the approval column with great dexterity.
Outsiders often believe that Shincho-sha, a century-old publishing house, relies on its gentle and refined style and pure literary integrity.
Outsiders often believe that Shincho-sha, a century-old publishing house, relies on its gentle and refined style and pure literary integrity.
But only those who truly wield this machine understand that this behemoth, which has stood the test of time in the brutal Japanese publishing industry for over a century, has never been merely gentle, kind, respectful, frugal, or modest at its core.
Kitahara Iwa left behind a masterpiece of single-volume literature for Shinchosha through his trust.
Therefore, as a tacit understanding of returning the favor, it is time for Shinchosha, this massive media machine, to thoroughly settle the old score from half a month ago on behalf of Kitahara Iwa.
The publicity campaign was extremely targeted, focusing on only two people: Tadashi Nijo, a senior columnist for the Kyoto Taisei Shimbun.
And Yoichi Katsuragi, former director of the Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science and Technology and current education reform advisor.
These two names reaped the benefits of public opinion during the nationwide outcry against "The Scream" half a month ago, and were the most arrogant in their pronouncements.
As Ichiro Murata's pen left the paper, the plan, which had been approved with the highest authority, immediately entered the execution process within Shinchosha.
The planning department systematically connected with major newspaper channels, and the layout department replaced the original standard GG page in the shortest possible time.
As night fell, the printing press started up on time, pressing this retaliatory ink mark onto rolls of paper with remarkable smoothness.
This is the execution efficiency of a century-old media organization.
Fifteen hours later, at 7:15 AM, during the morning rush hour.
Millions of office workers across Japan picked up the latest issue of "Shukan Shincho" at subway stations, convenience stores, and newsstands, as well as a full-page copy of "GG" sandwiched between major mainstream daily newspapers such as "Yomiuri Shimbun" and "Asahi Shimbun".
The moment it was opened, almost everyone froze in their tracks.
It was an extremely simple yet visually striking double-page layout.
On the white background of the left half of the page, the two most arrogant statements from half a month ago were enlarged in bold black font, word for word:
The first paragraph, from Tadashi Nijo's column, reads: "Kitahara Iwao is a mentally ill person who is jealous of Japan's prosperity... a failed writer's morbid curse on a successful era."
The second paragraph is from Yoichi Katsuragi's public statement: "The Scream is a malicious slander against Japanese society and a disgrace to the literary world..."
The right half of the image features Shinchosha's exposed fangs.
The right half of the page, however, reveals Shinchosha's true fangs: a letter of denunciation signed by ten literary giants and academic elites in Japan.
The ability to assemble these ten highly influential names within 24 hours is undoubtedly due to the extensive network and resources of Shinchosha, a century-old company.
But the deeper reason is that, as the Nikkei index plummeted through the 34,000-point mark over the past two weeks, countless national assets have vanished.
The anger of the entire Japanese society urgently needs an outlet.
These ten shrewd business leaders know better than anyone when to take sides.
Speaking up for "The Cry," which predicted the stock market crash, is not only about seizing the moral high ground of the times, but also about using the stage set up by the New Tide Society to settle old scores.
Therefore, every short commentary on the right half of the page reeks of ruthless beating of a drowning dog:
"The duty of literature has never been to sing praises to bubbles on a sinking ship. Today, with the stock market crashing and countless citizens losing their fortunes, history has already given the answer as to who the morbid deceiver really is." — Japanese social mystery writer and columnist.
During the frenzy of the bubble economy in the past few years, he adhered to his principles and depicted the hardships of the lower classes. He was effectively blacklisted by Yoichi Katsuragi at the Ministry of Education level on the grounds that his work was "detrimental to national education," and was also ridiculed by Tadashi Nijo in the media.
Now that his prophecy has come true, he will naturally use "The Cry" as a weapon to launch a ruthless counterattack against the politicians and vicious dogs who suppressed him back then.
"If 'The Last Cry,' which confronts reality head-on, is called a 'disgrace to the literary world,' then those who blindly whitewash the situation are the gravediggers of this country." — Professor Emeritus of Sociology at the University of Tokyo and leader of the Tokyo School of Literature.
Tadashi Nijo, a graduate of the Taisei Shimbun in Kyoto, has always prided himself on being a true Kansai scholar and has frequently criticized Tokyo's academic circles in his columns.
Amid the economic collapse, the Tokyo faction, led by the University of Tokyo, seized the opportunity with remarkable decisiveness.
They wanted to distance themselves from former bureaucrats like Yoichi Katsuragi as quickly as possible, and at the same time, in the struggle for power, crush Tadashi Nijo, a troublemaker from the Kyoto faction.
"The literary world doesn't need sycophants; we need pens like Kitahara Iwa's that dare to dissect the ills of society." — Akutagawa Prize winner and permanent director of the Japan Writers Association.
He is a veteran writer who rose to fame with the Shinchosha publishing house twenty years ago and gradually ascended to legendary status.
For him, Shinchosha was his parent company.
Nijo Tadashi's outrageous remarks two weeks ago, which included insults directed at the Shinchosha, had already angered this core group of writers who came from the Shinchosha.
Ten highly influential names, each carrying their own old grudges, factional demands, and desires for repayment, are densely arranged at the bottom of the page, driven by the same anger and self-interest.
On the left are two clowns who have been slapped hard by reality.
On the right is the ultimate judgment brought against them by the most elite intellectual class in all of Japan.
In the very center of this starkly contrasting layout, a highly sarcastic headline is printed:
"To those who are pretending to be asleep: The times have awakened, and the lies must end here."
The speed at which this exclusive ad spread through the morning rush hour crowds far exceeded the expectations of Shincho Publishing's planning department.
It's not because of its exquisite layout, but because it so precisely hit the most sensitive and desperate nerve in all of Japan at that moment.
Tokyo on January 14th was in the deepest panic since the bursting of the bubble economy, and today the stock market was experiencing another big drop.
The Nikkei index continues its breathtaking decline, with countless ordinary people losing their paper wealth in just over ten days.
Faced with the immense trauma of this nationwide collapse of faith, the entire society urgently needs an outlet to vent its panic.
This page from Shincho-sha is like a perfectly accurate bullseye for public sentiment.
That morning, the customer service switchboard of Kyoto Taisei Shimbun was completely full at 9:15 a.m.
Although there was no hysterical vulgar abuse, the cold, chilling pressure from Japanese society, delivered with respectful language, was undeniable.
Thousands of readers called in, not to argue or make a scene, but with an extremely firm demand that the newspaper apologize for the columnist's "deceptive remarks," accompanied by a move that chilled all traditional print media—
Collective unsubscription.
In just one morning, the number of unsubscription reports sent to the management's desks had already exceeded the total of the previous six months.
Faced with this extremely devastating business backlash, the top management of Kyoto Taisei News demonstrated the ruthless decisiveness typical of traditional zaibatsu.
At 2:00 PM sharp, Taisei News Agency released a highly standard Japanese-style crisis management statement through all official channels:
First and second Tadashi's personal column will be permanently removed effective immediately.
Secondly, the comments previously made by Tadashi Nijo were purely his personal subjective conjectures and had nothing to do with the editorial policy and values of this newspaper.
Third, the newspaper expresses its deepest apologies for the confusion and misunderstanding caused to the general public by the content of this column.
In order to preserve the newspaper's core business, the top management of Taisei News Agency ruthlessly ousted Tadashi Nijo, much like removing a diseased tumor.
As for Tadashi Nijo, he didn't even receive a call from any high-ranking officials, not even a perfunctory advance notice.
He realized he had been completely abandoned when he saw a staff member from the general affairs department pushing a cart across the office area, mechanically distributing a freshly printed internal notice, still warm from the copier, to the desks of every ordinary editor.
At that moment, the ringing of telephones around us stopped at some point, and the entire office area fell into an extremely eerie silence.
Nijo Tadashi stared intently at the thin sheet of white paper on his desk.
Staring at those few lines of cold, resolute black lead characters, my blood ran cold in an instant, and my back slumped limply against the chair back.
At this moment, a scene from six months ago flashed through Nijo Tadashi's mind with extreme irony.
Six months ago, in the early autumn, during the layout battle of the special issue of "Literature and Art", he used all the resources of the Kyoto faction to try to besiege Kitahara Iwa.
As a result, he was brutally crushed by the sudden emergence of "Love Letter" in third place, making him a laughingstock of arrogance and conceit in front of readers all over Japan, and he slunk away and refused visitors for several months.
It was because of this deep-seated personal grudge that he thought he had finally found a golden opportunity to turn things around when "The Scream" sparked nationwide condemnation half a month ago.
He thought he was conforming to the unshakable mainstream public opinion in Japan, and that he could step on Kitahara Iwa's corpse to stand on the high ground of the literary world again.
But he never expected that Kitahara Iwa not only predicted the avalanche of the times, but also, under the manipulation of Shinchosha, carried out an extremely cruel attack on him.
For the first time, Kitahara Iwa destroyed his pride.
This time, Kitahara Iwa directly dismissed his social work.
The next day.
The personnel department sent someone to place a document on his desk outlining his voluntary early retirement.
There was no dismissal ceremony, and no one came to say goodbye.
As Tadashi Nijo carried a cardboard box full of personal belongings toward the elevator, the only sound in the large office area was the extremely dense sound of writing.
Those colleagues who used to fawn over him now all lowered their heads in perfect unison, staring intently at their desks, as if a single glance at him would contaminate them with some deadly plague.
This cold indifference, treating him as if he were nothing, is the ultimate form of coldness in the Japanese workplace.
Meanwhile, in Kasumigaseki, Tokyo, another, even more silent political division is taking place simultaneously.
As the former director of the Ministry of Education and current advisor to the National Conference on Educational Reform, Yoichi Katsuragi was the one with the strongest official background in the crackdown that took place half a month ago.
He once sat in NHK's prime-time studio, adopting a condescending bureaucratic attitude, and characterized "The Cry" as a sensationalist doomsday sale, while confidently assuring the nation that the Japanese economy was rock solid.
This video was once the most powerful endorsement for the conservatives' suppression of Kitahara Iwa.
But when Shinchosha's full-page "GG" with its extremely cold layout spread throughout the offices of Kasumigaseki during the morning rush hour, Katsuragi Yoichi's aura of stability instantly turned into a deadly poison.
The operating logic of the Japanese bureaucratic system is always cold and pragmatic.
This means avoiding risks and never getting involved in any trouble that could affect the credibility of the institution.
Therefore, there's no need for hysterical stock market investors to bombard the switchboard.
That morning, just a few extremely subtle inquiry calls from within the Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science and Technology, and a few expressions of concern from two members of parliament to the cabinet, were enough to sentence Yoichi Katsuragi to death.
No one is willing to protect a former bureaucrat who has been jointly attacked by literary giants and has been severely slapped in the face by reality during this extremely sensitive period of stock market crash and public discontent.
This is tantamount to playing with fire.
Around noon, Yoichi Katsuragi received an internal phone call from the Director of the National Assembly Secretariat.
The voice on the other end of the phone was extremely polite, even using the most elaborate honorifics.
The other party made no mention of the condemnation in the newspapers, but instead stated very tactfully: In view of the current complex social sentiment, in order to avoid affecting the work of the National Assembly, it is suggested that Mr. Katsuragi temporarily relinquish his position as advisor due to health reasons and take a good rest.
Suggestions and rest.
In Xiaguan's political lexicon, Katsuragi Yoichi, who had spent most of his life navigating the treacherous waters of officialdom, knew the true meaning of these two words better than anyone else.
But he neither argued nor got angry.
Because he knew that any struggle would be futile in the face of this extremely sophisticated and ruthless bureaucratic machine.
So he simply replied "I understand" into the microphone in a very dry tone, and then slowly hung up the phone.
It was 2 p.m. that day.
At the same time that Kyoto Taisei Shimbun dismissed Tadashi Nijo, the National Conference on Education Reform also issued a very respectable personnel announcement.
In its announcement, the National Assembly expressed its highest praise for Advisor Katsuragi's hard work over the years and regretfully approved his resignation due to personal health reasons.
The wording of the announcement was impeccable; it was gentle, appropriate, and full of human warmth.
But this is precisely the most despairing cruelty in Japan's political landscape.
They simply and politely withdrew the chair that represented power and status without bloodshed, and then completely severed all the political resources that Yoichi Katsuragi had painstakingly cultivated for half his life.
In just twenty-four hours.
Shinchosha, with a single newspaper, cleanly and efficiently carried out a double social attack on two heavyweight figures in the Japanese literary and political worlds.
January 15th.
In the tatami room on the second floor of the "Shin-Kiraku" ryotei in Tsukiji, the smell of tobacco and tea mingled together.
Several literary elders who hold the highest authority in Japanese pure literature sat cross-legged.
The old-fashioned writer, wearing tortoiseshell glasses, broke the silence first while reading the manuscript of "Love Letters," saying, "Without a doubt, this is a masterpiece with the ultimate in pure literary quality."
"He managed to blend the filth of the lowest rungs of Shinjuku's streets, the absurdity of fake marriages, with a love that was pure to the point of being almost sacred, a love that had never been met before, in such a breathtaking way."
The old-school writer's voice carried an undisguised excitement as he said, "There's no pointless whining, and no self-indulgence common in traditional I-novels."
"Kitahara Iwao used extremely rough and realistic brushstrokes to depict the moment when a marginalized person's soul was pierced and redeemed."
"Especially that last grammatically incorrect suicide note... the raw realism and heart-wrenching compassion, judging solely from the emotional density and literary depth of this text, 'Love Letter' is rare in this era."
"I completely agree with the assessment of 'Love Letter'."
Kuroi Chiji pushed the teacup beside him, his brows furrowed, with a copy of "New Trend in Novel" prominently placed next to him.
"But gentlemen, we cannot ignore what is happening on the first floor. Kitahara Iwa, who writes such ethereal and pure prose, is simultaneously serializing a popular work like 'The Cry,' a novel rife with social ills, crime, and insurance fraud!"
No sooner had he finished speaking than a commotion broke out in the room.
For these old-school literati, pure literature is an art of introspection, while popular suspense is a carnival of pandering to the outside world; the barriers between the two have always been very strong.
"I'm also reading the serialization of 'The Cry,' and it's indeed a very ingenious social mystery."
Keizo Hino shook his head, his tone tinged with disbelief and confusion, and said, "The two works are completely different in quality; they represent the pinnacle of their respective fields."
"But what I'm worried about now is... what if we give the Akutagawa Prize to 'Love Letter' today, and those guys who want the Naoki Prize are also captivated by 'The Cry' and give him the Naoki Prize too? What then?"
Hino Keizo paused for a moment, looked around, and said, "A newcomer, in the same year, simultaneously winning both the Akutagawa Prize for pure literature and the Naoki Prize for popular literature? This will completely break the rules of the literary world and cause a major upheaval."
After he finished speaking, a long silence fell over the room.
For these aloof guardians of pure literature, to have their award coincide with that of a popular literature judge and be given to the same person is somewhat of a challenge to their established beliefs.
"cough……"
The chief judge, Marutani Saiichi, sitting in the main seat, gently tapped his cigar in the ashtray and let out a low cough, instantly silencing all the murmurs.
He slightly raised his eyelids and said in an old but undeniable voice, "If the first floor really wants to award the Naoki Prize to 'The Cry'... that's something for Naoki and his ilk to worry about."
Marutani Saiichi's withered fingers tapped lightly on the cover of "Love Letter," his gaze sharp as he said, "We are the judges of the Akutagawa Prize; we are only responsible for the artistic merit of pure literature."
"No matter how popular or mainstream the suspense stories Kitahara Iwao writes with his other hand, the hand that wrote 'Love Letter' truly touched the soul of pure literature."
At this point, Marutani looked around at everyone and made a definitive statement: "The success of 'The Cry' in a secular sense cannot and should not be a reason for us to belittle his literary achievements."
"If you strip away Kitahara Iwao's identity as a social realist mystery writer, he is fully qualified to win this year's Akutagawa Prize based solely on this book, Love Letter."
"The temple of pure literature recognizes only words, and nothing else."