Chapter 134 Does sitting in a chair left behind by a master make one a master?
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As Takashi Sadokawa finished speaking, there was a brief silence on the other end of the microphone.
But in the president's office of Shinchosha, those few seconds of deathly silence felt exceptionally long.
Faced with this invitation, which symbolized the core discourse power in the literary world, Kitahara Iwao's voice slowly came through the radio waves: "If we follow the seniority-based convention in the circle, my current resume is clearly not enough to sit in the position of chief judge."
Upon hearing this half-sentence, Takashi Sadokawa tightened his grip on the microphone, his heart sinking as he assumed the other party was about to politely decline.
"but--"
At this moment, Kitahara Iwakatsu slightly changed the subject, saying, "Everyone knows why things have escalated to this point. With trust completely collapsed, the last thing the literary world needs to consider is seniority."
"If taking this position can help those utterly disillusioned readers regain some trust in the literary world..."
At this point, Kitahara Iwa paused for a second before giving his final answer: "Then, I'm willing to make an exception."
"Send over the draft for the final election. Let me take a look."
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the receiver, followed by a brief silence of relief and speechlessness for Chairman Sadogawa.
"Yes, thank you for your help, Kitahara-sensei! I'll definitely deliver the manuscript this afternoon!"
The call ended.
Takashi Sadokawa put the receiver back on its base, leaned back on the sofa, and let out a long sigh.
The elderly man, who was over seventy years old, finally relaxed his shoulders after several days of tension. Although he looked exhausted, he had managed to regain his footing.
The manuscript for the Akutagawa Prize finals was naturally in the hands of the Promotion Association.
However, considering Kitahara Iwa's reclusive nature and aversion to socializing with strangers, having an acquaintance from the Shincho-sha handle the liaison was clearly the safest option.
Sadokawa Takashi turned to look at Sato Kenichi across from him, his tone pleading, "Editor-in-Chief Sato, I'm afraid I'll have to trouble you to make the handover of the manuscript again."
"That's how it should be."
Kenichi Sato had already made preparations and immediately stood up, saying, "I'll go to the Revitalization Association this afternoon to get all the copies of the manuscripts. After I've organized them, I promise to personally deliver them to Professor Kitahara's apartment today."
It was 4 p.m. that day.
Kenichi Sato carried a heavy cardboard box and rang the doorbell of Kitahara Iwa's apartment building.
Soon, the door opened.
Kitahara Iwao stood in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over the cardboard box. "Editor-in-Chief Sato arrived so quickly?"
"This concerns the life or death of the literary world, so I rushed over here."
Upon hearing this, Editor-in-Chief Sato smiled and said, "All six finalist works are here."
Then, Kenichi Sato carefully placed the cardboard box on the floor of the entryway, and then took out a printed briefing list from his briefcase and handed it to Iwao Kitahara with both hands.
"Teacher Kitahara, Tsujiwara Noboru's 'The Name of the Village,' Shimizu Kunio's 'The Wind Bird,' Okuizumi Hikaru's 'The Waterfall,' Kawabayashi Mitsuru's 'Thirst for Water'..."
Kenichi Sato read out the authors and titles of the six works in order, then pointed to the first name and added, "Currently, the most popular one is Mr. Noboru Tsujihara's 'The Name of the Village'."
"He has cultivated a wide network of connections in the literary circle for many years. He has been shortlisted for the top spots in previous years but has never won. This is his fourth time being shortlisted, and many critics in the circle have reached a consensus that this year it is 'his turn'."
When Kenichi Sato said the words "it's his turn," his tone carried an undisguised mockery and indifference.
The fact that literary awards prioritize seniority over the quality of the work is a microcosm of the current state of rottenness in the world of pure literature.
Kitahara Iwatsu took the list, glanced at it casually, and made no comment on the so-called "pre-selected" name.
"Understood. I'll let you know when there are results."
Seeing the fine beads of sweat on Sato's forehead, Kitahara Iwa looked up from the paper and said, "Thank you for making this special trip."
"You're too kind! It's what I should do."
Relieved by this affirmation, Sato bowed deeply and respectfully, saying, "Then I won't bother you any longer."
Kitahara Iwa nodded slightly and stood quietly until Sato straightened up, turned around, and said goodbye. Only then did he reach out and gently close the door.
Then Kitahara Iwa picked up the heavy cardboard box and walked towards the study.
Kitahara Iwao, the chief judge of the Akutagawa Prize, was well aware of the weight these seven words carried in the Japanese literary world.
Over the past nearly seventy years, those who have been able to sit on that judging panel have all been literary giants with gray hair and numerous works to their name.
That requires at least thirty years of continuous writing, winning all the major literary awards, and having a deep-rooted network of students and a strong reputation within the literary circle.
This is a closed circle that has been maintained for more than half a century by time, honor, and personal connections, and outsiders have almost no way to get in.
And he himself, a young man who has only been in the industry for two years, is about to become the youngest member of this core group that holds the fate of new literary talents in its hands.
This sounds like an absurd fantasy, but in contemporary Japanese society, no one dares to utter a single word of doubt.
Because the foundation of the three characters "北原岩" was forged with a level of creative density and quality that is difficult for ordinary people to achieve.
Since his debut in 1989, Kitahara Iwao has achieved remarkable success in less than two years. In his first year, he bombarded the publishing industry with "Ringu," "Confessions," and "Love Letter," and with "Scream" and "Railroad Man," he created a historic start in Japanese literary history by winning both the Akutagawa and Naoki Awards.
In 1990, with the continued success of "The Ring" and the phenomenal sales of "Journey Under the Midnight Sun" exceeding three million copies, it earned a tribute from Kenzaburo Oe and Seicho Matsumoto.
The final installment, "The Doctor's Love Equation," warmed the hearts of the Japanese people who were still reeling from watching "Journey Under the Midnight Sun."
He is indeed only in his twenties, but the eight heavyweight works he has produced in the past two years are all of such importance that they are enough to make those old-fashioned writers who sit in their studies and wait for seniority look up to him.
Faced with such achievements, any doubts about "insufficient qualifications" seem like a joke.
At this moment, Kitahara Iwa walked to the desk, put down the cardboard box, and casually tore open the seal.
In the following period, Kitahara Iwao locked himself in his study and began to review the six manuscripts that would determine the future direction of the Japanese literary world.
The little white cat curled up in the corner of the desk, like a quiet ball of fur. Occasionally, it would open its heterochromatic eyes to glance at its owner, then listlessly continue dozing off.
Kitahara Iwa reads very quickly.
But he wasn't just skimming the surface; he was examining his peers' writing with the eye of a mature creator.
Today, Kitahara Iwa's vision can easily penetrate those meticulously crafted words and directly touch the underlying narrative logic and story framework.
Often, he only needs to flip through the first ten pages to clearly grasp the structure and emotional tone of the entire work.
The subsequent reading felt more like a calm verification of the author's completeness of the framework.
Furthermore, Kitahara Iwa had a pen and a stack of blank sticky notes next to him.
After reading each book, he would write objective and concise annotations on a sticky note—usually only two or three lines—and then calmly paste it on the title page of the manuscript.
Part 1. Tsujihara Noboru's *The Name of the Village*. The most popular choice, representing "experience and connections."
This was also the work that was originally going to win the 103rd Akutagawa Prize in the actual historical trajectory.
Kitahara Iwao spent an afternoon reading it. The novel is set in a remote mountain area.
The story revolves around a male employee of a Japanese trading company who, while searching for rushes to make tatami mats, accidentally wanders into a secluded place called "Peach Blossom Spring Village".
There, a mysterious drowned corpse, a bizarre dinner featuring raw dog meat, and a local woman with the scent of peach blossoms entangle the protagonist in a web of reality and fantasy, plunging him into an emotional disorientation and a search for his identity in a foreign land.
The writing is exquisitely crafted, with a dense array of rhetoric and a well-structured narrative, all demonstrating the veteran author's profound traditional literary skills.
But after reading it, Kitahara Iwao expressionlessly picked up his pen and wrote on the note on the title page: "The technique is skillful and refined, but the sentimentality from an elite perspective is too superficial. It treats real impoverished and isolated places merely as a backdrop to satisfy the middle class's curiosity and create an exotic atmosphere. It lacks a true portrayal of the pain of humanity at the bottom of society. It has plenty of craftsmanship but no inspiration."
After finishing his comments, Kitahara Iwao casually pushed the manuscript to the left side of his desk.
The second book is Kunio Shimizu's "Wind Bird".
I've read about two-thirds of it.
Annotation: "Elaborate and dramatic language cannot fill the void in the logical framework." Push to the left.
Part Three, Part Four, Part Five...
The process of him picking up each manuscript, flipping through it, annotating it, and finally pushing it to the left side of his desk was like an industrial assembly line.
By the evening of the following day, five of the six manuscripts had been neatly stacked on the edge of the desk.
In the very center of the desk, only the last manuscript remained.
He Linman's "Thirst for Water".
Kitahara Iwao's hand, holding a coffee cup, froze in mid-air for the first time when he turned to the third page of "Thirst for Water".
The author of this novella, Mitsuru Kawabayashi, is a "marginalized vagrant" who is virtually unknown in the literary world.
He did not graduate from a prestigious university, nor was he a student of any literary giant, and he had never published any groundbreaking works in any mainstream literary journals before.
In real life, his day job is as a low-level civil servant in a local government agency.
Specifically, he was an ordinary meter reader at the Tachikawa City Waterworks Bureau in Tokyo. And what "Thirst" depicts is precisely this real world, steeped in the rust and sweat of his life.
The protagonist of the story is a junior clerk in the waterworks bureau.
During the sweltering heat and drought that lasted for days without rain, his daily work was to go door-to-door to "cut off" the water supply to low-income families who had long been in arrears with their water bills.
During a routine mission, he encounters two young sisters abandoned by their mother in a dilapidated apartment. The two children are struggling to survive in a desperate situation without electricity or gas, and the protagonist must, according to regulations, personally cut off their last line of defense for survival—water.
The very concept itself carries a suffocating, stinging sensation.
Because it doesn't touch on any grand historical narrative or exquisite existentialist philosophy, but rather on a concrete, cruel tragedy that happens silently every day at the very bottom of Japanese society.
In the sweltering heat, the tap in the home of a dying poor man was legally tightened.
It's that simple.
But Kitahara Iwao found something missing in the other five manuscripts in this cruel story.
Raw and authentic.
He Linman's writing style is indeed not refined enough.
Compared to the refined elegance of Tsujihara Noboru, where every comma is perfectly placed, the language of "Thirst" is rough and even clumsy.
Some passages show obvious awkward word choice and a lack of rhythm.
But it is precisely this roughness that gives this novel a quality that is hard for even the works of masters to match—a sense of pain.
This kind of pain is not something that can be conjured up out of thin air in a spacious study, nor is it something that can be discussed in a salon in a high-class ryokan, much less a mature technique borrowed from a certain Western classic.
It grew from blood-stained soil.
This is a tearful accusation written by someone who has truly struggled at the bottom of society, who witnessed and carried out the task of "cutting off water to the poor" with his own eyes and hands. He was repeatedly torn apart by his conscience and the bureaucratic system, and could no longer remain silent.
Kitahara Iwa read the manuscript twice from beginning to end.
After reading it a second time, Kitahara Iwa did not leave any annotations on the title page. Instead, he took it out separately and placed it neatly under the desk lamp in the center of his desk.
While Kitahara Iwao was quietly reviewing his manuscript behind closed doors, the world outside was thrown into turmoil by an official announcement from the Japan Literature Promotion Association.
The following morning, the Japanese publishing industry, which had been quiet for several days, was completely ignited by an official press release issued without warning by the Japan Literature Promotion Association.
The Yomiuri Shimbun, Asahi Shimbun, Mainichi Shimbun—the cultural front pages of all major newspapers in Japan were simultaneously dominated by the same name.
The headline layouts of various newspapers even exude a kind of unconventional fervor.
Yomiuri Shimbun: "An exception is made! Professor Kitahara Iwao serves as the special guest judge for the 103rd Akutagawa Prize."
Asahi Shimbun: When Tradition Collapses: A Young Man in His Twenties Takes to the Throne of the Highest Judgment of Japanese Literature.
……
Even the announcements on commuter trams in the morning, as well as the morning news programs on major television stations, were broadcasting this bombshell news that overturned decades of literary conventions.
The news, once released, was like a spark falling into a powder keg.
The public opinion field, which was already turbulent due to the Murota scandal, experienced a brief but extremely intense split in the first few hours.
The first to jump out and fight back were the conservative commentators who clung to the system of powerful clans and whose interests were deeply tied to the traditional review system.
They angrily and instinctively voiced their doubts and criticisms in the urgent column of "Literary Spring and Autumn" and in the comment sections of major evening newspapers.
"Absurd! A newcomer who has been in the industry for less than two years, and hasn't even published a single serious collection of literary theory and criticism, what right does he have to judge the hard work of others?"
"This is a blatant desecration of the nearly seventy-year history of the Akutagawa Prize! To have a young man in his twenties judge established writers who have dedicated most of their lives to their craft—where is the seriousness of the judging process? Shouldn't the hierarchy of literary figures still be respected?"
"Has the decision-making body of the Literary Revitalization Association completely bowed to commercial sales? This is not only rash, it's destroying the last line of defense for the dignity of traditional pure literature!"
In the writings of these conservatives, Kitahara Iwa's sudden arrival was not only due to his lack of qualifications, but was also exaggerated into a disaster that "destroyed the rules of the literary world".
They tried to use the harshest moral cudgel to beat this uncivilized intruder out of the country.
However, these faint voices of doubt were quickly crushed by a massive wave of support from the entire society.
In the reader exchange areas of major bookstores and in the reader letter sections of newspapers, the public's rebuttal logic is simple and hardcore: Kitahara Iwao produced eight phenomenal masterpieces in less than two years, which in itself has already broken through the so-called "seniority" barrier in the literary world.
In the face of absolute strength and talent, bringing up age is nothing more than the last fig leaf used by decadent intellectuals to protect their livelihood.
The ones who truly made the final judgment in this storm of public opinion were the ordinary book buyers who, after experiencing the Murota scandal, were completely disillusioned with the world of pure literature.
Volkswagen displayed a defiant attitude with no room for retreat: "We've had enough of those old men in the industry playing the spoils game behind closed doors."
"If this year's final selection is still based on the same old seniority-based clichés, we will never spend a single yen to buy any of the winning entries."
"In this awful summer, we only acknowledge that the books selected by Kitahara-sensei himself are clean literature."
Just as the outside world was in an uproar, at the headquarters of the Japan Literature Promotion Association...
Chairman Takashi Sadokawa sat on the sofa in his office, looking at the mountain of newspaper clippings on his desk and the social opinion report that his assistant had just compiled. He let out a long sigh of relief.
Just three days ago, the Revitalization Association's building was besieged by angry protesters, and letters of inquiry from several major sponsors withdrawing their qualifications came flying in like snowflakes.
Now, with the news that Kitahara Iwao has confirmed taking over as presiding judge, all the resistance and abuse have miraculously subsided.
The hostile gazes that had filled the entire nation of Japan instantly transformed into a strong anticipation for the outcome of this final election.
Takashi Sado and several other core directors with equally sunken eyes exchanged glances, their eyes filled with the relief of surviving a disaster.
Looking at Kitahara Iwa's name in the newspaper, they were absolutely certain of one thing: in this dead end where public trust was gradually eroding, they, a group of old bones with one foot in the grave, had finally made the right choice.
Under the watchful eyes of the entire society and this enormous external impetus.
mid-July.
Tokyo, "Shin-Kiraku" ryotei (traditional Japanese restaurant).
This upscale Japanese restaurant, founded during the Taisho era, is the traditional venue for the Akutagawa Prize finals.
For decades, the highest honors in the Japanese literary world have been decided by a group of senior figures in a tatami-floored Japanese-style room on the second floor.
Before 2 p.m., the judges were already seated at the low table in the second-floor Japanese-style room.
Looking around, all the people had white or gray hair, and the youngest of them were over fifty.
In front of them were hot tea and copies of the six shortlisted works.
An indescribable tension and unease permeated the air.
This predicament stems not only from the fact that this year's Akutagawa Prize is facing an unprecedented crisis of public trust.
"Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s" is currently being serialized and is not to be missed!
More importantly, because they are about to face a young man who is less than half their age, yet is tasked with cleaning up the mess left by the entire traditional literary world.
It was exactly 2 PM.
The shoji door of the Japanese-style room was gently pushed open, and Kitahara Iwa walked in.
Today, Kitahara Iwa was dressed in a dark gray casual suit with a pure white shirt underneath. His attire was appropriate but not rigid. He looked more like an ordinary junior who came to Shin-Kichiro for an appointment on a leisurely afternoon than the chief judge who was about to decide the final winner of the Akutagawa Prize.
Kitahara Iwa paused briefly at the doorway, then nodded slightly to the assembled senior figures and said, "Greetings, esteemed seniors. Excuse me for disturbing you."
Kitahara Iwa's voice was calm and his manners impeccable. He then walked to the seat reserved for him and sat down with composure.
As Kitahara Iwa sat down, the quiet conversation that had been taking place in the tatami room gradually subsided.
In the brief silence, the several literary veterans present simultaneously stopped what they were doing, their gazes seemingly drifting towards the person in the main seat.
A subtle sense of unease permeated the air.
In order to break the silent stalemate and get the final selection meeting on track, following the decades-old seniority-based system of the Akutagawa Prize, the most senior judge, sitting to the side, took the initiative to break the ice.
He shifted slightly, cleared his throat, and pushed the copy of the manuscript of "The Name of the Village" a few inches forward before speaking first to set the tone.
"Well then, I'll start."
The old man's voice was calm and steady, carrying a sense of composure honed through countless closed-door meetings.
"I think Tsujihara's 'The Name of the Village' is the most complete of the six works submitted this year."
He took off his reading glasses and slowly wiped them with a velvet cloth as he spoke gently: "Set in a remote mountainous area inland, the story explores the identity disorientation and cultural clashes of modern people through the adventures of a Japanese trading company employee in a foreign village."
"The writing is very elegant, and the sentiment of 'mono no aware' is perfectly natural. In terms of technical skill alone, it is the pinnacle among writers of his generation."
At this point, he put his glasses back on, looked around at his colleagues, and added, "Moreover, this is Tsujihara-kun's fourth time being shortlisted for the finals. He made it to the end the first three times, but each time he narrowly missed out by a small margin. His dedication to literature is evident to everyone here."
This high-sounding statement had a very clear subtext: Tsujiwara Noboru has waited long enough, and according to seniority, it's finally his turn.
As soon as he finished speaking, the other judges at the low table began to echo his sentiments without saying a word.
"Agreed. The technique is indeed refined and masterful, deeply capturing the essence of mono no aware (the pathos of things)."
"His writing style is that of a master; Tsujihara-kun's progress over the years is clearly visible."
"The structure is solid, and the emotional control is very skillful. Of the six works this year, this is the safest choice."
In the context of the Akutagawa Prize judging, the word "safety" has always been a delicate one.
Its literal meaning is "not making mistakes", but its deeper meaning is "not causing trouble".
In a sensitive period when public trust has been severely damaged by the Kohei Murota scandal, choosing a work from within the industry that is "technically impeccable and written by a highly experienced author" is the most conservative strategy to silence the media.
Even if there are doubts from the outside world, the judges can use hard indicators such as "good writing, stable structure, and four shortlistings" to deflect criticism.
This is an unspoken rule that has worked perfectly in the Japanese literary world for years—the highest literary award does not seek to discover the most resounding voices, but only to select the "safe cards" that are least likely to cause a stir.
Throughout those ten-odd minutes of agreement, Kitahara Iwa remained completely silent.
He held the warm cup of sencha in front of him, occasionally taking a sip.
His gaze swept calmly over each of the seasoned judges who were speaking eloquently, his face revealing no hint of agreement or disagreement.
After everyone had expressed their opinions, a brief but meaningful silence fell over the Japanese-style room.
All eyes turned to Kitahara Iwa's expression.
They are waiting for Kitahara Iwa to open up.
As long as Kitahara Iwa nods according to the rules, wait for him to say "I agree too".
Once this formality is complete, the Akutagawa Prize, which is currently under intense scrutiny, can be successfully concluded. Everyone can then finish this arduous task before dark and enjoy Shinkiraku's kaiseki cuisine in a private room on the first floor.
Feeling the gazes of everyone, Kitahara Iwa put down his teacup.
The ceramic cup made a slight tapping sound when it came into contact with the solid wood tabletop.
In the quiet, almost imperceptible Japanese-style room, the sharp sound struck everyone's nerves like a gavel.
"I have heard all the comments from the seniors on 'The Name of the Village'."
Kitahara Iwao's tone was calm, without a trace of aggression: "I completely agree with these conclusions: his technique is harmonious, his writing is elegant, and he embodies the essence of mono no aware (the pathos of things)... Mr. Tsujihara's writing skills are indeed first-rate."
Listening to Kitahara Iwa's comments, the judges' tense shoulders relaxed slightly.
However, the next second, Kitahara Iwao calmly pushed the manuscript of "The Name of the Village" in front of him aside.
"But I have a question."
Kitahara Iwa lifted his gaze from the paper and placed it directly on the face of the white-haired judge opposite him who had set the tone first.
"In the summer of 1990, when an economic bubble was about to burst, the people were filled with confusion and anxiety, and the shadow of unemployment loomed..."
"If the Akutagawa Prize were to select a novel in which 'a middle-class urban dweller travels to a remote, impoverished region of another country, experiencing a kind of exotic spiritual journey amidst a melancholic atmosphere,' and honor it as the highest honor in Japanese literature..."
At this point, Kitahara Iwa leaned forward slightly and said, "What do you all think the readers who were just betrayed by Murota Kohei will think?"
As Kitahara Iwa's voice fell, the air in the entire Japanese-style room instantly became heavy.
Before anyone could answer, Kitahara Iwa continued, "This kind of smooth technique precisely masks the arrogance inherent in its nature."
The entire novel is told from the perspective of an elite who has the leisure and resources to travel abroad in search of novelty. The so-called "mono no aware" and "cultural clashes" that the protagonist experiences in the impoverished village deep in the mountains... are, in essence, nothing more than the cheap aesthetic appreciation of a well-off spectator standing on an absolutely safe high ground, looking down on the suffering of the lower classes. .
"This is not the pathos of things."
Kitahara Iwa's voice suddenly dropped as he said, "This is just making a fuss over nothing."
These four words landed heavily on the tatami mat, carrying a weight greater than a thousand pounds.
The faces of the veteran judges instantly turned pale and then ashen.
Because what Kitahara Iwa tore apart was not just one of Tsujiwara Noboru's novels.
Rather, it was a fig leaf that had been used to cover up the entire literary review system for decades.
Most of the judges present were themselves pampered "middle-class" individuals.
The so-called classics they have selected over the decades are nothing more than reflections of the aesthetic tastes and spiritual confusion of their own class.
As for the ordinary people struggling in the mire of the lower class and truly enduring the social pain, their tears have long been shut out by the "high-class aesthetics" that the elite class flaunts to each other.
The silence lasted for nearly ten seconds.
boom!
A loud, forceful slam of the table shattered the oppressive silence.
An elderly judge sitting at the end of the low table slammed his hand heavily on the table, causing the water in his teacup to splash everywhere.
The old man was over seventy years old, with deep nasolabial folds, and his eyes revealed an arrogance and meanness that had been cultivated from years of holding a high position.
"Teacher Kitahara!"
The old man's voice trembled slightly with anger, a kind of bravado masked by the desperate attempt to maintain the last shred of dignity in the literary world after his facade had been ripped off.
"Your book sold really well; it not only became a bestseller but also won two awards. We all agree on that."
He took a deep breath to suppress the anger rising in his chest and continued, "But commercial success and the depth of pure literature are two completely different things!"
"The essence of pure literature is the result of decades of reading, thinking, and refining one's writing skills."
"This is something you can't figure out just by writing a bestselling novel for a year or two!"
The old man raised his chin, his gaze fixed on Kitahara Iwa like a hawk's, and delivered his final, almost confrontational, conclusion: "Excuse my bluntness, but in terms of understanding and accumulation of traditional pure literature, you are simply no match for any of the seniors present today!"
As soon as he finished speaking, the expressions of the other judges in the Japanese-style room changed completely.
The other judges had different expressions.
Some people expressed concern that "you shouldn't have messed with him," while others secretly gloated that "finally someone dared to say it outright."
Kitahara Iwa looked at the furious old judge with an expressionless face, staring at him quietly for a full three seconds.
Then, Kitahara Iwa spoke.
His tone remained as steady as ever as he said, "Your advice is correct. Qualifications and experience are indeed invaluable assets."
Upon hearing this, the veteran judge's tense jaw relaxed slightly.
He thought his intimidation had worked, and that this arrogant young man had finally learned to back down.
"But I have a question."
At this moment, Kitahara Iwa changed the subject, tilted his head slightly, and said in a questioning tone, "Since the seniors present here have such profound literary knowledge and such a solid foundation in pure literature..."
"Then why did Sadogawa, the chairman of the Japan Literature Promotion Association, personally drive to the Shinchosha office two days ago, setting aside all his status and making an exception to plead with me, a young man with 'no background'..."
Kitahara Iwa's gaze remained calm as he looked at the old judge.
"Shall we take our seats in the judge's chair?"
"Are you here to clean up this mess that has already lost its credibility?"
As Kitahara Iwa's blunt words fell, the temperature in the entire Japanese-style room instantly plummeted to freezing.
The old judge's mouth was slightly open, but he couldn't utter a single word.
Because what Kitahara Iwa presented was an undeniable fact.
This group of so-called "veteran" individuals has squandered the entire industry's credibility after the Kohei Murota scandal.
Readers all over Japan are disgusted with them.
The senior members of the revitalization association are suspicious of them.
Even when they see the overwhelming articles condemning them in the media, they probably no longer believe in themselves.
That's why the authorities, in their desperation, resorted to hiring a young man who had only been in the industry for two years as their pillar of strength.
The reason why the people in this Japanese-style room can still sit here with dignity today is not because of their high prestige.
Rather, it was because Kitahara Iwa, who was sitting in the main seat, was willing to generously lend them his public credibility to make purchases.
The old judge's face quickly faded from flushed to an unpleasant ashen.
Those rebuttals that were originally prepared, meant to rely on seniority and experience, instantly became soap bubbles that burst at the slightest provocation in the face of this soul-searching question.
But Kitahara Iwa did not stop.
His gaze remained firmly fixed on the other person as he continued, "Since you value seniority so much, senior..."
At this moment, Kitahara Iwao slowed his speech by half a beat, as if carefully considering his words, and said, "Then I'd like to ask you another question. Senior, you've been in the industry for almost forty years now, haven't you?"
"I have published a lot of works and attended countless closed-door reviews like today's."
"But in these forty years—"
Kitahara Iwa stopped speaking abruptly, as if he were pondering something carefully in his mind.
At that moment, Kitahara Iwa's eyes suddenly lit up, as if he had remembered something, and his voice suddenly rose: "Senior, it seems that you have never written even one work that can be remembered by readers for a long time, or that has truly touched the soul of the times..."
As Kitahara Iwatsu uttered these words, the old judge's pupils contracted sharply, the muscles at the corners of his eyes twitched uncontrollably, and he abruptly raised a finger to point at Kitahara Iwatsu: "You...you..."
He said "you" several times in a row, but he still couldn't get the rest of his words out.
But Kitahara Iwao didn't let his thoughts rest there, and continued, "And the reason why you are qualified to sit in this position that will determine the future of Japanese literature today..."
At this moment, Kitahara Iwa picked up the teacup in front of him and took a sip naturally.
"It's not because your talent is so amazing, nor because your literary attainments are so profound."
Kitahara Iwa put down his teacup with a soft sound.
"It's simply because you lived longer and were luckier. Thanks to the outdated rules of the literary world that 'rank people by seniority,' you outlived those truly talented people of your time by a few more years."
"When those truly great masters have all retired, passed away, and are no longer here..."
"So you took it for granted and sat in the empty chair they left behind."
At this moment, Kitahara Iwa's gaze was extremely clear and transparent.
This kind of objectivity, devoid of any emotional expression, is the highest form of cruelty.
If Kitahara Iwa were to make sarcastic remarks, the other party could at least use "arrogant brat" as a psychological defense.
But Kitahara Iwao did not.
Kitahara Iwa was simply stating an objective fact that everyone in the Japanese literary world knew about, but no one dared to call it out to their face.
"Sitting in the empty chair left behind by a famous artist..."
Looking at the pale-faced, trembling old judge, Kitahara Iwao delivered his final closing statement: "Did he really think he was a master too?"
As Kitahara Iwa finished speaking, the old judge's body completely collapsed at that moment.
His once stiff and rigid back now bent limply, his shoulders slumped down, his pale face showed a desolate look as if all his energy had been drained, and his lips trembled but could no longer utter a sound.
The air suddenly seemed to sink, and in the large Japanese-style room, only the cicadas chirping outside the window in the height of summer remained, one chirp after another, making one's heart race with unease.
The remaining judges looked at each other, none of them daring to speak first.
Some people stared intently at the teacup in front of them, some frantically glanced at the courtyard outside the window, and some unconsciously dug at their palms under the table.
No one dared to speak out against it at this time.
Because everyone knew that Kitahara Iwa's confession just now wasn't just for that old judge's ears.
This was said to everyone present.
"Seniority," which they had long used as a shield against death, meant absolutely nothing to Kitahara Iwa.
The air remained still for a long time. Someone quietly swallowed, the sound of their Adam's apple bobbing clearly audible in the silence.
It wasn't until Kitahara Iwa picked up a stack of manuscript papers and gently placed them on the table, accompanied by the soft sound of paper rubbing against solid wood, that the nerves of the veteran judges in the tatami room, which were on the verge of snapping, began to relax a little...
This return to the review process signifies that the ruthless stripping of their personal dignity has finally come to an end.
The manuscript that Kitahara Iwatsu had pulled out separately was none other than Kawarashi Mitsuru's "Thirst for Water".
Ignoring the disheveled expressions on everyone's faces, Kitahara Iwa simply pushed the manuscript steadily to the center of the low table, placing it at the focal point where all the judges' eyes had to converge.
"Since your so-called 'literary accumulation' can only produce polished rhetoric and superficial sentimentality—"
Kitahara Iwa's tone returned to its initial calm and even tone as he said, "Then let's take a look at what kind of grassroots literature truly makes people hear the sound of bones breaking."
Upon hearing this, the judges' eyes involuntarily focused on the manuscript.
Thirst for Water, by He Linman.
The judges present did indeed scan this work during the preliminary review stage.
However, their impression of it was extremely vague and negative—the writing was rough, the narrative was awkward, and it lacked the rhetorical density that traditional pure literature should have.
In short, it completely fails to meet the definition of a "good novel" held by their elite class.
Kitahara Iwa opened the first page of the manuscript.
"The author of this novel, Mitsuru Kawabayashi, is a nobody in the literary world. He didn't graduate from a prestigious university, nor was he anyone's student. His day job was as a low-level meter reader for the Tokyo Metropolitan Waterworks Bureau."
"The protagonist of the story he wrote is also a meter reader who travels around in the sweltering heat. One of his daily tasks is to go to impoverished families who have been in arrears with their water bills for a long time and enforce the 'water cut-off' in accordance with the law."
As Kitahara Iwatsu spoke, he gently pressed his fingers on the manuscript.
"I don't deny that the writing style of this article is somewhat clumsy."
"Compared to the refined elegance of Mr. Tsujihara, where every comma is flawless, Mitsuru Kawabayashi's language is rough, even earthy. Some passages clearly show inappropriate word choice."
Kitahara Iwa paused briefly, his gaze sweeping over everyone present, and slowly said, "But it is precisely this roughness... that makes it so priceless."