Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

Chapter 174 This country is truly insane!

By mid-December 1990, the Christmas atmosphere in Tokyo was growing stronger.

The department stores in Ginza are adorned with colorful lights, and the shop windows display imported perfumes, designer handbags, jewelry, and expensive spirits.

After receiving their double paychecks at the end of the year, year-end parties followed one after another.

Reservations at upscale restaurants are in high demand, members-only bars in Roppongi are brightly lit, and taxis line up along the roadside at night.

Everyone seemed to be proving, in an even more boisterous way, that this era remains as prosperous as ever.

It was at this time that Shinchosha allocated an extremely rare promotional budget to "The Collapsing Tower".

Murata Taro knew very well that, given Kitahara Iwa's current status, readers no longer needed anyone to introduce "who Kitahara Iwa is."

.

The Naoki Prize, the Akutagawa Prize, the Yomiuri Literature Prize, the Tanizaki Jun'ichirō Prize, plus the British Golden Dagger Award—these honors are enough to propel Kitahara Iwao's name to the most prominent position in the Japanese literary world.

Therefore, the purpose of this publicity campaign is not to introduce Kitahara Iwa to readers.

Instead, it was to let everyone know that Kitahara Iwao's new book had arrived.

Almost overnight, posters for "The Collapsed Tower" began to appear on the streets of Tokyo.

It started with major stations along the Yamanote Line.

Shinjuku, Shibuya, Ikebukuro, Tokyo Station.

The walls that were originally covered with GG Records, department store promotions and Christmas event notices were quickly taken over by large posters bought by Shinchosha.

Following that are Ginza, Roppongi, Marunouchi, and Akasaka.

Even the electronic screens on the exterior walls of several high-rise buildings began to repeatedly play the same image.

In the center of the image is a giant soap bubble reflecting the Tokyo night view.

The surface of the bubble reflects the neon lights of Ginza, the lights of Roppongi, the glass facades of luxury apartments, and the endless stream of car lights.

Beautiful, glamorous, and fragile.

Above the bubble, a cold, metallic pen nib hangs suspended.

The pen tip drooped, a drop of thick black ink clinging to its tip.

It was as if the next second, that drop of ink would fall and pierce the entire bubble reflecting the bustling night view of Tokyo.

The entire poster completely abandons noisy commercial gimmicks such as "must-read of the year" or "emotionally moving launch".

Below the large expanse of white space, only a line of cool gray text is printed:

Kitahara Iwa, the final report piercing through the era.

This brief statement carries a cold, objective tone, which seems out of place with the increasingly festive atmosphere on the streets of Tokyo in December.

But it is precisely this abrupt refusal to flatter that makes it stand out amidst the dazzling and glamorous GG stores, creating a cool-toned blank space that instinctively slows people down.

The poster quickly sparked discussion on the streets of Tokyo.

Amidst the city's Christmas lights, department store promotions, and year-end parties, this soap bubble, about to be punctured by a pen, stands out conspicuously.

When office workers are crowded on the subway platform waiting for the train, they often linger in front of the posters for a few extra seconds.

Some people just frowned after reading it and continued flipping through the newspaper.

Some people, watching the screen, couldn't help but whisper to their companions, "Kitahara Iwa has a new book out?"

"They didn't even specify the subject matter, but this copywriting sounds really heavy."

"I have absolutely no idea what the content is like—but since it's by Kitahara-sensei, it must be another major work."

"Looks like there's another great book to read this month."

The posters played on a loop on the large screen in Ginza.

The bank employee, still smelling of alcohol, had just come from a year-end party and was laughing and talking with his colleagues about next year's bonus.

But when he looked up and saw the drop of black ink hovering above the soap bubble, his laughter paused briefly.

His colleague patted him on the shoulder.

"What's wrong?"

He looked away and gave a forced, relaxed laugh.

"It's nothing, just novel promotion."

But after taking a few steps, he couldn't help but look back.

In an era where assets are touted as ever-appreciating in value, the pen nib suspended above a giant bubble on the poster carries an unsettling visual metaphor.

No one offered any comment, but several slightly tired middle-aged men subconsciously looked away and silently tightened their grip on the briefcases tucked under their arms.

Tokyo remains bustling as the year draws to a close.

People hurried by carrying exquisitely wrapped gifts, discussing next year's market expectations amidst the bubbles of izakayas and champagne.

The poster for "The Collapsed Tower" simply hangs quietly against this noisy backdrop.

The colorful festive neon lights around them flashed and alternated, but the pen nib, poised to fall, remained still.

Meanwhile, the printing press of Shinchosha had been running continuously for several days.

On the eve of the official release, boxes of the completed books, exuding a strong smell of ink, were quickly sealed and loaded onto trucks.

Trucks departing overnight drove into the night, distributing these weighty words along the highway network to key bookstores in Tokyo, Osaka, Kyoto, Nagoya, and other cities.

The paper still smelled of fresh ink.

The cover design is restrained to the point of being almost oppressive.

Against a dark background, the towering building symbolizing the bubble era stands tall, but a thin red crack has appeared at its base.

Before the large-scale distribution, Kitahara Iwa also received several sample copies of the first issue.

However, he did not leave these books in the study.

Instead, he personally wrote several short messages and sent them, along with the same book, to several literary friends with whom he had a good personal relationship.

Haruki Murakami, Ryu Murakami, Yoshio Takahashi.

The three people reacted differently when they received the book.

Late at night, in Thousand-Tao Valley.

Soft jazz music was playing in Haruki Murakami's study.

The record player's needle slowly glides across the vinyl record surface, and the deep sound of a saxophone flows through the room.

The Tokyo night outside the window was so quiet it was almost detached.

A cup of black coffee sits on the table.

However, Haruki Murakami did not touch it again.

His finger remained on the last page of "The Collapsed Tower," not turning the page for a long time.

He started reading in the evening.

At first, he simply opened the book out of curiosity about his friend's new work.

Kitahara Iwao has written too many amazing things in the past two years, including "Confessions", "Scream", "White Night", and "Never Let Me Go", each of which is so sharp that it seems out of place for works from the same era.

Therefore, Haruki Murakami originally thought that he was already familiar enough with Kitahara Iwao's writing style.

But The Collapsed Tower still silenced him for a long time.

This is not a novel that delves into one's inner self.

It wasn't the kind of loneliness, loss, desire, and self-drifting he was familiar with.

This time, Kitahara Iwa didn't delve into the depths of someone's heart to depict the loneliness in a quiet room.

Instead, they stood outside the entire era.

With a calm, almost cruel gaze, dissect the high-speed machinery of this country.

Banks, housing agencies, real estate developers, bureaucrats, family, kinship, reputation, loan contracts —

Each part was disassembled by Kitahara Iwa and laid out under the light.

What's most terrifying is that Kitahara Iwa didn't use exaggerated language to roar.

He simply wrote it with calm and understated strokes.

However, the calmer the writing style, the more it resembles reality.

As Haruki Murakami closed his manuscript, the sky outside the window was beginning to lighten.

The jazz music stopped sometime ago, and only the faint static of the record needle spinning idle remained in the room.

He looked down at the title on the black cover and remained silent for a long time in the gradually whitening morning light outside the window.

The exhaustion from a sleepless night was completely overwhelmed by the heavy lingering effect of the manuscript's ending.

The immense sense of oppression emanating from the text made it impossible for him to follow the usual work schedule and adhere to those polite social etiquettes.

Knowing that calling at this time would be too abrupt, he still reached out and dialed Kitahara Iwa's number.

The waiting tone on the receiver played for a long time.

In the stillness of the early morning, each monotonous "beep" sound seemed exceptionally long.

Just as the call was about to automatically disconnect, the faint sound of clothing rubbing as the receiver was picked up could be heard from the other end.

"Who is it?"

Kitahara Iwa's voice still carried a slight hoarseness, as if he had been forcibly pulled from his sleep. He paused for two seconds, as if checking the time, before his tone gradually returned to its usual calm.

There was a half-second silence on the other end of the phone.

Then came Haruki Murakami's voice.

"Iwa-kun, it's me."

Kitahara Iwatsu slowly opened his eyes a little after recognizing his voice.

"Haruki-kun?"

He glanced at the clock on the bedside table, his tone carrying a hint of surprise after his drowsiness.

"So early?"

Haruki Murakami, instead of making his usual jokes, said, "Sorry to bother you at this hour."

Haruki Murakami then paused for a moment before continuing, "But I just finished reading 'The Collapsing Tower,' and I felt I should call you now."

Kitahara Iwa held the microphone, remained silent for a moment, and his sleepiness lessened.

"Finished reading?"

"Um.

""

Haruki Murakami stood by the window of his study, watching the sky outside gradually brighten.

The black coffee on the table had gone cold, and the sample book lay open under the lamp, with a note he had casually tucked into the edge of the pages.

He let out a soft breath.

"Iwa-kun, this book is amazing."

Kitahara Iwa didn't answer immediately. After a while, he asked, "Just impressive?"

Haruki Murakami gave a wry smile.

"It's also very dangerous."

Haruki Murakami looked out the window at the gradually brightening sky.

The morning in Tokyo looked as calm as ever, as if nothing had happened.

But the book he had just finished reading seemed to have already given him a premonition of some heavy collapse.

"This is undoubtedly a great work."

Haruki Murakami slowly said, "But I must say, Iwa-kun, your writing is too accurate, and too ruthless."

At this point, Haruki Murakami paused, his tone revealing obvious concern.

"You're not alluding to any one person, nor are you attacking any particular bank. You're dissecting the entire political and business network of this country, along with the most hidden and vulnerable parts of ordinary families."

"Once such a book is published, those who have vested interests will not regard it as a novel."

"They'll see it as a threat."

Kitahara Iwao did not answer immediately on the other end of the phone.

Haruki Murakami continued, "I know you're not the kind of person who'll stop just because of trouble."

"But I still want to remind you."

"This time, there could be a very troublesome counterattack."

Haruki Murakami lowered his voice as he spoke.

"Iwa-kun, I'm very worried."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone.

Then, Kitahara Iwakatsu gave a calm laugh and said, "Thank you."

Hearing Kitahara Iwa's nonchalant words, Murakami Haruki frowned and quickly said, "I wasn't praising you."

0

"I know."

Kitahara Iwa said, "That's why I said thank you."

Haruki Murakami was speechless for a moment.

After a moment, he sighed softly.

He was quite familiar with Kitahara Iwa.

Since the book has already been written to this extent, there is no point in persuading him to retract it.

Haruki Murakami ultimately said in a low voice, "In any case, I will write a serious review of this book."

Kitahara Iwa said, "Then I'm really looking forward to it."

The two did not say anything more.

After hanging up the phone, Haruki Murakami sat at his desk, watching Tokyo gradually light up outside the window.

It took him a long time to reopen the sample book with the black cover.

On the blank space of the first page, there is a sentence written by Kitahara Iwao himself.

Yizhi Chunshu: May we all hear the sound of cracks amidst the noise of our times.

Haruki Murakami looked at that sentence and slowly exhaled.

Meanwhile, the atmosphere in another apartment was completely different.

When Ryu Murakami finished reading "The Collapsing Tower," the room was a complete mess.

Several empty bottles were scattered on the ground, the ashtray was piled high with cigarette butts, and there was a half-finished glass of whiskey on the table.

He reads very quickly.

I read it with great excitement.

When he saw the illegal lending practices within the bank disguised as respectable practices in the first half of the article, he started muttering curses under his breath.

He burst out laughing when he saw the murky web between the housing development and real estate developers.

When he saw Hayakawa Rei being pushed to the brink of despair step by step by his family, agency, and bank, his smile faded.

Until the last page.

Until the sentence "The murderer sat at the entire table" was uttered.

Murakami Ryu slammed the book shut, grabbed the whiskey on the table, and took a big gulp.

The strong liquor burned my throat.

He seemed to be ignited, and suddenly let out a loud, penetrating laugh.

"marvelous."

Murakami Ryu slammed the cup back onto the table.

"This is fucking awesome!"

Without much hesitation, he grabbed the phone and called Kitahara Iwao directly.

As soon as the call connected, Murakami Ryu's voice came through like a cannonball.

"Kitahara!"

Kitahara Iwa had just uttered the word "Dragon Lord" when he was interrupted.

"This is absolutely a bombshell!"

Murakami Ryu's voice was so excited it was almost a roar.

"Do you know what? You stripped all those vampires in expensive suits, spouting macroeconomics and asset allocation nonsense, and nailed them to the cross!"

"Banks, housing agencies, real estate developers, bureaucrats, and those wretched families who sacrificed their loved ones for debt—not one escaped!"

As Murakami Ryu spoke, he paced back and forth in the room, kicking empty wine bottles at his feet until they rolled to the side.

"I've always felt this country has gone mad."

"Everyone is pretending to be respectable."

"It's clearly a man-eating creature, yet it insists on giving itself a fancy name."

"Debt is called asset allocation."

"Exploitation is called family responsibility."

"Deception is called financial innovation."

"Everyone was drinking and laughing, as if as long as they laughed loud enough, the people being crushed to death below wouldn't exist."

Murakami Ryu spoke faster and faster, and finally he almost laughed through gritted teeth.

"Your book is like lifting their tablecloth."

"They even wrote down the maggots at the bottom of the plate."

On the other end of the phone, Kitahara Iwa listened quietly.

After Murakami Ryu finally paused for a moment, Kitahara Iwao said, "It seems you like it quite a bit."

"like?"

Murakami Ryu seemed to have heard something absurd.

"This isn't a matter of liking or disliking."

"Kitahara, once this book is published, there will definitely be people besieging you."

"They will pretend to be rationalists, economic experts, and defenders of social responsibility, saying you are alarmist, inciting unrest, and that you don't understand finance."

"But those people in Kasumigaseki and Nihonbashi know very well that your book is stripping away their underwear."

Murakami Ryu let out an undisguised sneer on the other end of the phone.

"Just you wait and see."

"Once the book is released, those vested interests who have been hit where it hurts will definitely launch a fierce counterattack in the media, using all sorts of high-sounding economic theories to attack you, saying that you are spreading alarmist rumors."

At this point, Murakami Ryu paused, his previously calm voice revealing a hint of wanting to stir up trouble: "However, if they really dare to make a move in the media, I would be happy to give them space in my column."

"If anyone dares to jump out and say that this book is nonsense, I will personally tear off their respectable fig leaves and compare it word by word for them to see which line in this book has wronged them."

He paused for a moment, then said with a hint of satisfaction, "Yan-kun."

"This book is the noose hanging around their necks."

On the other end of the phone, Kitahara Iwa laughed.

"Then I'll have to trouble you."

"Come on."

Murakami Ryu put a cigarette in his mouth and mumbled, "I'm not helping you."

"I just want to see them panic."

Yoshio Takahashi, on the other hand, remained even more silent than the two Murakamis.

He opened the sample book with great anticipation when he received it.

As a social mystery writer, he has always been aware of Kitahara Iwao's terrifying talent in narrative structure and the oppressive feeling of characters.

Moreover, in terms of subject matter, "The Collapsed Tower" falls almost exactly in the area where social realism novels excel.

Cases, families, systems, and the times.

He originally thought it would be an exceptionally good social mystery.

But after actually reading it, Yoshio Takahashi realized that he had underestimated Kitahara Iwao.

What shocked him most about this book was not the Tokyo Bay luxury apartment murder case itself.

It's not the suffocating tragic storyline of Hayakawa Rei either.

Rather, it is the closed loop of financial logic that Kitahara Iwao presents throughout the book.

From the tightening and loopholes in the policies of the Tibet Autonomous Region to banks shifting risks to housing specialties in order to maintain performance.

From housing regulatory agencies' lax approach to real estate financing to real estate developers repeatedly using inflated land prices to obtain loans.

Then, at the very bottom, ordinary families are forced to bear the ultimate risk for the entire system due to joint guarantees and emotional blackmail.

The three layers fit together perfectly.

Every seemingly insignificant action by those at the top can become a catastrophe for those at the bottom.

The more Yoshio Takahashi read, the more cold sweat broke out on his back.

Because this is no longer the imagination of an ordinary novelist.

It's so complete.

It's so complete it's like a real investigative report.

However, Kitahara Iwao wrapped it in a highly readable reasoning structure.

Readers will initially be drawn in by the murder case.

Then, following the detective's investigation, they gradually delved into the intricate network of relationships among the apartment's residents.

By the time readers realize that they are not really facing a murderer, but an entire era, it is already too late to extricate themselves.

After reading the entire book, Yoshio Takahashi sat in his study for a long time.

He did not call Kitahara Iwa immediately.

Instead, I flipped back to the first half and reread several sections about bank meetings, housing documents, and Hayakawa's signature.

The more he looked, the more certain he became of one thing.

Kitahara Iwao is not using a single case to allude to social issues.

Instead, it directly transforms the case into a consequence of the social structure itself.

The killer is no longer just someone wielding a knife.

Murder weapons are no longer just things that police can put into evidence bags at crime scenes.

Contracts, mortgages, guarantees, meeting minutes, bank approval forms, and even a simple phrase like "this is for your own good" can all become part of the murder.

A few days later, at a small literary gathering, someone mentioned Kitahara Iwao's new work.

At this time, "The Collapsed Tower" had not yet been officially released, and only a very small number of people had read sample copies.

Many writers and editors present couldn't help but turn their gaze to Yoshio Takahashi.

Someone asked with a smile, "Takahashi-kun, I heard you've already seen it?"

Yoshio Takahashi put down his wine glass.

He is not usually someone who likes to make pronouncements about others at the dinner table.

But this time, after a moment of silence, he gave a very high evaluation.

"The Collapsed Tower is not your average social realism mystery."

As soon as he finished speaking, the area around the table quieted down a bit.

Yoshio Takahashi continued, "In the realm of social realism, it has built a high wall that inspires despair."

Upon hearing this, the editors' expressions changed.

Yoshio Takahashi showed no intention of taking it back. Instead, he looked at the swirling liquid in his glass and said, "Kitahara is not just writing novels."

"He is using the highest level of sociological and economic logic to write the epitaph for our era in advance."

No one spoke at the table for a moment.

After a moment, someone took a soft breath.

"Is that exaggerated?"

Yoshio Takahashi raised his eyes.

"Once you finish reading it, you'll know whether I'm exaggerating or not."

Starting that night, rumors about "The Collapsed Tower" began to spread rapidly among writers, editors, and media.

At first, it was just a few whispered discussions.

"After reading it all night, Haruki Murakami personally called Iwao Kitahara."

"Murakami Ryu said it was the noose hanging around the necks of capitalists."

"Yoshio Takahashi said at the gathering that the book wrote an epitaph for the era."

These words did not appear in the newspapers.

It was not officially included in Shinchosha's promotional materials.

But they spread rapidly within the cultural sphere, like some more secretive and effective spark.

Soon, almost everyone knew the saying.

Kitahara Iwa wrote a masterpiece that could be considered a god-like work.

At the same time, this is also an extremely dangerous book that could get you into serious trouble.

Dangerous, masterpiece.

Once these two words are linked together, it's enough to ignite everyone's expectations.

The media's nerves were quickly aroused. The chief editors of the culture sections of major newspapers no longer had reporters queue up according to the usual procedure, but instead directly used their high-level connections to call Shincho Press, trying to exchange personal relationships for even just a few pages of the manuscript for trial reading.

Several major television stations have even freed up prime time slots for Kitahara Iwa, which can be inserted at any time.

Even the most perceptive gossip magazines, though they hadn't seen a single official page, could already sense the intense tension based solely on Shinchosha's unusual promotional tactics and the "dangerous" assessments circulating among the literary elite.

These editors, who were well-versed in social psychology, immediately realized that this was no ordinary literary publishing event.

They changed the weekend edition's headline overnight, devising several sensational headlines based solely on journalistic intuition, without any substantial content:

The Unusual Silence of Shinchosha: Which Tower Has Kitahara Iwa Pointed His Pen Towards?

"The Arrogance and Confidence Behind 'Piercing the Times': This Dangerous Manuscript That Literary Leaders Remain Silent About"

Meanwhile, the atmosphere at the bookstore grew more tense with each passing day.

On the eve of the release, several large bookstores in Tokyo erected barricades in advance, an unprecedented move.

The store managers found it absurd, but they dared not let their guard down.

Because the pre-sale data has completely spiraled out of control.

The limited-edition first-release set, which included a bookmark autographed by Kitahara Iwao, sold out on the day pre-orders opened.

The limited number of signed copies added by Shinchosha were snapped up by major bookstores within hours.

Some bookstores even received calls from readers who were willing to pay extra to reserve a first edition copy.

Two days before the release, people on the black market had already started reselling so-called "first-print unopened pre-order orders".

Double the original price.

double.

In the end, the price even tripled.

The bookstore staff privately thought it was outrageous.

A novel that has not yet been officially released has already been treated as a collectible and speculative item by scalpers.

This in itself is like the most absurd footnote to "The Collapsed Tower".

A novel that depicts bubbles, speculation, and how people are swallowed up by inflated values ​​was actually hyped up by the times before it was even released to the public.

When Kenichi Sato saw the report, he couldn't help but remain silent for a long time.

He then put the paper back on the table, gave a wry smile, and said, "This country is truly insane."

Outside the window, Tokyo's nightscape is illuminated as brightly as day by Christmas lights.

On the large screen in Ginza, the pen nib, suspended above the soap bubble, falls silently again and again.

Japanese society as a whole seems to still be standing inside a giant bubble.

Some people were laughing, some were raising their glasses, some were queuing, and some were bidding up prices to buy.

Someone in a high-rise building in the financial world frowned as they looked at the poster.

Some people braved the cold December wind in front of the bookstore, waiting to buy Kitahara Iwao's new work as soon as it was light.

The whole society is holding its breath in anticipation.

Waiting for the official release of this novel.