Chapter 133 The Akutagawa Prize needs Kitahara-sensei to save it!
Izumi Sakai's terrifying influence wasn't confined to the studio.
Following the invisible radio waves of the live broadcast signal, it transcended the limitations of physical space, simultaneously penetrating tens of millions of television screens across Japan, and directly striking the hearts of countless ordinary viewers sitting in their living rooms.
The shock instantly transformed into a frenzied thirst for knowledge. On the very night the live broadcast aired, before the program had even completely ended, TV Asahi's viewer hotline was completely paralyzed within just half an hour.
"Who is this female singer with no makeup and wearing a white shirt?"
"What's the name of the girl who just sang 'Goodbye My Loneliness'?"
Where can I buy her CDs?!
The same anxious question was repeated thousands of times by enthusiastic viewers across the country.
The next morning.
Within the first hour of opening their shutters, record stores across Japan reenacted the almost surreal scene of the release day of "Journey Under the Midnight Sun," with shelves instantly emptied.
All physical copies of "Good-bye My Loneliness" sold out before 10 a.m.
Daiko Nagato made the decision directly at noon, and urgently contacted the processing plant to work around the clock to add more discs.
The following week, the Ori charts were updated, and "Good-bye My Loneliness" unexpectedly dropped into the top ten.
What surprised the industry even more was that this single completely broke the ironclad rule of new artists' songs "starting strong and ending weak" in the following weeks.
Its sales curve showed an incredible "reverse decline" trend. Instead of weakening, it resembled a mountain ridge that was climbing higher and higher, becoming steeper week by week.
This kind of viral spread may lack the explosive power of a top superstar's first day, but its terrifying staying power is enough to crush all other records released at the same time into dust.
The miracle of a new music star in 1990 was born.
However, joys and sorrows in the same time and space are often not shared.
Just as the pop music scene was rejoicing at this refreshing new force, the traditional literary world, separated by only a wall, was mired in a darkest hour.
Early July.
The farce of the master-disciple feud between Kohei Murota and Shingo Fujiwara was finally silenced from the headlines by a joint ban issued by several major publishing houses.
But the pressure from capital cannot cover up the disaster that has already been caused.
The aftershocks of this scandal are far more profound than the social death of the two individuals involved.
It tore open a bloody rift, allowing readers across Japan to see for the first time clearly what kind of sordid reality was hidden behind the elegant facade of the so-called "traditional pure literature circle."
A leading critic who writes book reviews for money.
A "rising star" who rose to fame through connections with his mentor rather than through the quality of his work.
A gray industry chain in which publishers exchange "guidance fees" obtained through shady dealings for control of the literary world.
These shady deals, which were previously considered "unspoken rules" within the industry, were uprooted and laid bare before the entire Japanese public in Shingo Fujiwara's suicidal revelations.
The public's reaction was unanimous—extreme disgust.
In just two weeks, the term "pure literature" has gone from a cultural icon representing seriousness and ideals to an industry joke synonymous with hypocrisy, money-grabbing, and seniority-based hierarchy.
The crisis was quickly reflected in the most direct data.
Literary magazines across Japan experienced a precipitous drop in sales.
The July issues of classic literary magazines such as "Gunxiang," "New Tide," and "Literary World," which were once considered sacred halls of literature lovers, saw their sales plummet by nearly 30% year-on-year.
The arts and literature sections of the newspapers were filled with scathing criticisms.
An editorial in the Asahi Shimbun was ruthlessly titled: "Is Pure Literature Dead? A Century-Old Deception Directed and Performed by Insiders."
The Mainichi Shimbun's commentary was equally incisive—"When Critics Become Brokers: The Complete Collapse of the Credibility System in the Japanese Literary World Behind the Kohei Murota Scandal."
In this unprecedented collapse of trust, the most severely damaged entity was not Kohei Murota's personal reputation, nor the financial statements of certain publishing houses. Rather, it was an honor that had lasted for nearly seventy years and was considered the highest pedestal in Japanese literature... the Akutagawa Prize.
The logic of the masses is very direct and fatal. If even the book reviews at the bottom and the recommendations of new writers can be clearly priced with money and personal connections, then has the base of this altar, which symbolizes the highest hall of pure literature, already rotted away?
With this intense suspicion and defensiveness, angry readers turned their scrutiny directly on the upcoming 103rd Akutagawa Prize.
The first step was to take a magnifying glass and meticulously examine the list of this year's judging committee members.
Soon, someone discovered a name – Maruyama Yoshisuke.
This senior judge has had a personal relationship with Kohei Murota for over twenty years. The two have not only praised each other on stage at literary seminars on numerous occasions, but also written recommendations for each other in literary magazines, and even co-authored a collection of essays on postwar Japanese literary criticism.
This senior judge has had a personal relationship with Kohei Murota for over twenty years. The two have not only praised each other on stage at literary seminars on numerous occasions, but also written recommendations for each other in literary magazines, and even co-authored a collection of essays on postwar Japanese literary criticism.
In fact, immediately after the Murota scandal broke, Maruyama, the judge, jumped out and issued a public statement, attempting to sever all ties with his former friend.
However, this statement failed to convince the public, who had already lost trust in it.
When readers unearthed and laid bare the details of their relationship over the past twenty years, public opinion was instantly ignited.
"If Kohei Murota can take money from publishers to write advertorial reviews, can't his close friend also engage in underhanded dealings in the Akutagawa Prize judging process?"
"Who can guarantee that the upcoming Akutagawa Prize won't just be another hypocritical performance of 'insiders dividing the spoils'?"
"If even the judges of Japan's highest literary honors can be manipulated by money and personal connections, then what reason do we ordinary readers have to believe in literature!"
Amidst the outrage from readers, the complaint hotline of the Japan Literature Promotion Association quickly became overwhelmed.
This wasn't just a few dozen or a few hundred complaints, but a relentless barrage of questions that lasted for three days, from morning till night.
The intense wiring work caused two employees to take sick leave the following day, forcing the Japan Literature Promotion Association to temporarily add two more lines to divert the workload.
Almost all the calls could be summarized into one thought-provoking question: "Can the Akutagawa Prize still be trusted?"
But this anger did not dissipate with the dial tone on the phone line; instead, it spread into reality in a more destructive way.
On the morning of the fourth day, dozens of angry literature enthusiasts, holding signs demanding a "thorough investigation into the inside story of the judging process," blocked the main entrance of the headquarters building of the Japan Literature Promotion Association.
By the afternoon, the crisis had worsened further.
Several large conglomerates that have long sponsored the Akutagawa Prize sent strongly worded inquiry letters, citing "assessment of brand reputation risks," implicitly but unequivocally expressing their intention to suspend further funding.
When the public outcry and the pressure from financial backers came crashing down at the same time, these literary leaders, who were used to sitting comfortably on their laurels, finally panicked.
To avoid the media and paparazzi outside the building who seemed to have caught a whiff of blood, the core executives had to flee in disarray through the freight elevator in the underground parking garage under the cover of night, like refugees.
late at night.
Tokyo, Kagurazaka.
In a secluded meeting room in a detached villa, used year-round for private internal meetings, the air was thick with the pungent smell of tobacco, and an anxiety even more suffocating than the tobacco itself.
Seven core members of the revitalization association sat around an oval-shaped table.
The chairman, Takashi Sadokawa, who was over seventy years old, sat at the head of the table with a frighteningly pale face.
Sadokawa Takashi had the day's major evening newspapers scattered haphazardly in front of him: the Mainichi Shimbun, the Sankei Shimbun, Tokyo Sports... almost every newspaper's front page was relentlessly and publicly executing the credibility of the Akutagawa Prize.
The core board members sitting next to him also had sunken eyes and expressions of grief.
"You have all seen the situation."
At this moment, Takashi Sadokawa's voice was extremely hoarse, as if even breathing was a heavy burden.
"The final selection for the 103rd edition was originally scheduled for the latter half of this month. However, given the current public opinion, if we simply proceed with the judging without taking any action, the public will assume that the award was given to someone behind closed doors, regardless of who it is."
As he spoke, Takashi Sadokawa shoved the pile of obscene newspapers in front of him heavily onto the center of the table.
"In its fifty-five years of existence, the Akutagawa Prize has never faced such a fatal crisis of trust. If this critical juncture is not handled properly, all of us here will become sinners in the history of Japanese literature."
As Takashi Sadokawa finished speaking, the atmosphere in the conference room became so oppressive that it seemed as if water was about to drip from it.
An older board member sitting on the left broke the deadlock, saying, "The most direct way is to make the review process public. Open up the hearings to major media outlets and use absolute transparency to silence public criticism."
"Absolutely not!"
Another short-haired director sitting opposite him immediately slammed his fist on the table and retorted vehemently, "Closed-door judging has been an ironclad rule of the Akutagawa Prize for decades! If we break this tradition because of one scandal involving Murota, it's tantamount to admitting to the whole society that all the judges in the past few decades have had shady dealings!"
"You're not putting out a fire, you're pouring gasoline on it! This will only trigger a larger-scale collapse of trust!"
"Then let's replace the judges at the last minute! Get rid of that troublemaking idiot Maruyama Yoshisuke and quickly replace him with a clean-name critic who has no connection to Murota to avoid any suspicion of impropriety."
The debate grew louder and the language became more and more heated.
Amidst the swirling smoke, the cigarette butts in the ashtrays unknowingly piled up into a small mountain, but every proposal put forward was quickly overturned in the process of mutual buck-passing and weighing of options.
The meeting had now reached a complete dead end.
The expressions of the seven people around the long table gradually shifted from initial anger and anxiety to a near-desperate silence in the face of an inescapable reality.
Just then—
A council member sitting at the very end of the long table slowly exhaled a breath of pent-up frustration.
He was the least senior participant here, in his early sixties, but in this top-level bureaucratic institution with its strict seniority system, he was still a "new generation" member who had been promoted to the core level just two years ago.
"I have a preliminary proposal."
His voice wasn't loud, but in the deathly silent conference room, every word carried weight.
"This plan may be a bit outrageous, and may even break our long-standing unspoken rules. But I believe it is currently the only way to fundamentally salvage the credibility of the Akutagawa Prize and break this deadlock."
As soon as he finished speaking, the eyes of the six board members at the long table all turned to him, filled with scrutiny and suspicion.
The "young" board member, under immense, suffocating pressure, clenched his fists tightly under the table.
He then took a deep breath and said, "We can make an exception and invite Professor Kitahara Iwao to serve as a special guest judge for this year's Akutagawa Prize."
At that moment, the air in the conference room seemed to freeze.
It was then completely detonated.
"absurd!"
A silver-haired director sitting to the right of Chairman Sadokawa slammed his hand on the solid wood table, splashing boiling water from his teacup.
"He's only been in the industry for two years! A mere two years! Which of you here hasn't spent most of your lives struggling in the literary world to get to where you are today?"
"To appoint a young man in his twenties as the presiding judge for the Akutagawa Prize—this is to trample on the dignity of all of us!"
"What's more, he himself was one of the previous winners! Is there ever any precedent in the history of Japanese literature for a winner to sit in the presiding judge's seat?!"
Another board member, his eyes red with urgency, loudly echoed, "I admit Kitahara Iwa is a genius. But talent and experience are two completely different things!"
"The Akutagawa Prize jury represents not only individual creative ability, but also the authority of decades of literary accumulation. He's too young; he simply can't command the scene!"
The least senior director sat quietly in his seat, letting these senior members roar and spit as they spoke.
Only after the voices of opposition gradually subsided did he slowly open the briefcase in front of him, take out a well-organized report, and spread it out on the table.
"The advice from our seniors is correct; seniority is indeed important."
His finger pressed heavily on the document, his gaze sharp as he said, "But I would like to ask you all to first face a few undeniable facts."
"First—Kitahara Iwa is the only writer in Japanese literary history to have won both the Akutagawa Prize and the Naoki Prize in the same year. Note that he is not 'one of' but 'the only'."
"Secondly, the cumulative sales of 'Journey Under the Midnight Sun' have now exceeded three million copies, and it also has the double endorsement of Kenzaburo Oe's 'Crime and Punishment' of the Heisei era, as well as a personal tribute from Seicho Matsumoto."
"Thirdly, 'The Doctor's Love Equation', with only 20,000 words, stirred up a national cultural tsunami within a week, and directly ended the literary careers of Shingo Fujiwara and Kohei Murota in a way that was like a dimensional reduction attack."
At this point, he slowly raised his head, his gaze sweeping across the faces of the crowd.
"Fourth, and most fatal point."
His voice turned completely somber: "After Kohei Murota's scandal was published, readers across Japan have completely lost their trust in the traditional literary world."
"They no longer trust critics who spout theories, they no longer trust publishers who are high and mighty, and they no longer trust us judges here."
"But they believe in Kitahara Iwao-sensei!"
These words were like a heavy hammer blow, shattering all the whispers in the conference room.
Seeing that no one could say anything more for a moment, the young director looked around and made his final statement.
"To be frank, the current situation is not about whether Kitahara Iwa needs the title of 'Akutagawa Prize judge' to embellish his achievements. With his current sales and reader reputation, he has long surpassed the scope of evaluation that traditional awards can provide."
"The reality we must face is that the Akutagawa Prize, whose credibility is on the verge of bankruptcy, urgently needs to borrow Kitahara Iwa's name to vouch for the entire judging system."
"If this year's final selection did not have his endorsement, no matter who you give the award to, the public will think it is just another disgusting show where insiders divide the spoils."
"But as long as Professor Kitahara Iwao sits in the presiding judge's seat, given his flawless and absolute credibility in the hearts of the people..."
"The reality we must face is that the Akutagawa Prize, whose credibility is on the verge of bankruptcy, urgently needs to borrow Kitahara Iwa's name to vouch for the entire judging system."
"If this year's final selection did not have his endorsement, no matter who you give the award to, the public will think it is just another disgusting show where insiders divide the spoils."
"But as long as Professor Kitahara Iwao sits in the presiding judge's seat, given his flawless and absolute credibility in the hearts of the people..."
"The person he pointed to was the undisputed winner of the Akutagawa Prize. No one in all of Japan dared to utter a single word of doubt."
As the words fell, a long silence ensued around the long table.
On the face of every veteran board member was an indescribable struggle: reason clearly told them that what this younger generation said was the only solution.
However, their deeply ingrained sense of aristocratic lineage makes them instinctively resistant to bowing down to a young man in his twenties and handing over the reins of power.
The silence lasted for a full three minutes.
Finally, Takashi Sadokawa let out a long sigh, looking as if he had aged ten years in an instant.
The seventy-something-year-old literary veteran put down the fountain pen he had been gripping tightly, the metal barrel of which clattered against the table.
"Go and invite them."
Sadokawa Takashi's voice was as light as a breeze, yet it carried a resolute tone that sealed the deal.
"On behalf of the Promotion Association, we formally extend an invitation to Professor Kitahara Iwao."
Sadokawa Takashi closed his eyes wearily, then said in an unquestionable tone, "You don't need to go. I'll come myself."
The next morning.
Shincho-sha, President's Office.
Taro Murata and Kenichi Sato sat side by side on a leather sofa, opposite Takashi Sadokawa, the president of the Japan Literature Promotion Association, whose eyes were bloodshot.
The fact that the president of the Promotion Association, a leading figure in the Japanese literary world, personally visited a publishing house speaks volumes about the urgency of the situation.
This elderly man, who is usually revered by people in the industry, was now behaving extremely humbly, even revealing a hint of barely perceptible modesty.
He spent nearly forty minutes recounting to President Murata and Editor-in-Chief Sato everything that the Akutagawa Prize was facing: the collapse of trust, the dead end within the judging committee, the loss of control over public opinion, and even the fierce clashes at last night's meeting.
Finally, the elderly man, well past seventy, leaned forward slightly and said in a heavy tone that had almost completely abandoned any pretense of literary elegance, "The Promotion Association earnestly requests that Professor Kitahara Iwao serve as the special invited chief judge for the 103rd Akutagawa Prize."
Upon hearing this, Murata Taro and Sato Ken instinctively exchanged a glance.
In that brief second, these two high-ranking executives, who were used to the ups and downs of the publishing industry, actually held their breath at the same time.
The chief judge of the Akutagawa Prize.
In the rigidly hierarchical Japanese literary world, this was by no means just a nominal title used for decoration.
It represents the core of the power of discourse.
This means that Kitahara Iwa will completely cross the threshold that originally required two or three decades of experience to reach, and officially step into the judging panel from a "creator who is subject to industry scrutiny" to become "an adjudicator who defines the literary value of others"!
"On behalf of Shincho-sha..."
Kenichi Sato's mouth reacted even faster than his brain; he almost accepted this enormous power on behalf of Kitahara Iwa.
But before he could finish speaking, his tongue seemed to be stung by something out of nowhere, and he abruptly stopped.
Kenichi Sato suddenly remembered that, given Kitahara Iwao's personality, it was still uncertain whether this matter could be accomplished, so he swallowed back the bold words that were on the tip of his tongue.
"President Sadogawa, please forgive us for being unable to make a decision for Kitahara-sensei regarding this matter."
Kenichi Sato took a deep breath, trying to make his voice sound calm and reliable, and said, "Please allow me to dial his apartment's private line now. This level of invitation must be presented to him personally."
Takashi Sadokawa nodded solemnly.
Kenichi Sato turned around, picked up the black landline on his desk, and dialed the familiar number with extremely careful movements.
"Beep—beep—beep—"
After three rings, the call was connected.
"Feed?"
Kitahara Iwa's voice came through the receiver, as calm and gentle as ever.
"Teacher Kitahara, this is Sato. I'm in the president's office now."
Kenichi Sato unconsciously quickened his pace and lowered his voice, saying, "Chairman Sadokawa of the Japan Literature Promotion Association has come to Shinchosha in person. He has an important matter concerning the future of the industry that he would like to discuss directly with you."
Then, Editor-in-Chief Sato used the most concise language to report on the current predicament of the Revitalization Association and its unprecedented request.
He then held the landline microphone in both hands and respectfully handed it to Takashi Sadokawa, who was sitting opposite him.
The elderly man, well past seventy, took the receiver. Despite being separated by an invisible telephone line, his decades of cultivation made him instinctively adopt the most solemn posture.
"The revitalization association is no longer able to fill this hole on its own. The public has lost all expectations of our judging system."
"But they trust you."
When Takashi Sadokawa said those words, his tone was filled with undisguised bitterness and self-mockery.
"Therefore, I'm putting aside my pride today to ask for your help—if you would be willing to make an exception and serve as a special invited judge for this year's Akutagawa Prize, using your credibility and absolute judgment in the eyes of the people to guarantee the shortlist for this year's winners..."
At this point, Sadokawa Takashi paused, his voice trembling slightly, and said, "This is not just about saving an award. It's about preserving the last shred of dignity for the entire traditional literary world."
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