Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

Chapter 175, "The Collapsed Tower," is now available.

Late December 1990.

The Collapsed Tower has been officially released.

On the morning of the release day, before the metal roller shutters in front of several large bookstores in Tokyo were even pulled up, the crowds waiting had already spilled out of the sidewalk.

This line of people snaked out from the store entrance, hugged the edge of the building, turned two street corners, and even extended all the way to the subway exit in the adjacent block.

The dark, dense crowd, bathed in the greyish-white morning light, resembled some enormous and silent living thing occupying the winter streets.

A cold wind swept across the street corner, swirling up flyers and fallen leaves. In the long queue, people simply buried their chins deep into their coat collars and tucked their hands tightly into their pockets.

Some people pulled their scarves up to their noses and stomped their feet to keep warm.

Some people were clutching the day's morning paper, repeatedly flipping through the full-page article on GG published by Shinchosha.

Some young readers were holding old paperback editions of Kitahara Iwao's past books, discussing them quietly with the people next to them.

No one wanted to leave.

"Are you here to buy 'The Collapsing Tower' too?"

"Of course! I wanted to come last night. If it weren't so cold, I would have waited at the door all night."

"But I didn't expect there to be so many people here even though I arrived so early."

77

"I heard this book is very dangerous."

"Murakami Ryu said it was a bomb."

"Takahashi Yoshio also praised it, saying that Kitahara Iwao wrote an epitaph for this era."

"I did read Haruki Murakami's recommended article this morning."

As soon as he said that, several people nearby immediately looked over.

The recommended article was published that day in the culture section of a major national newspaper.

The title is very restrained.

Seeing your own reflection in the mirror of a bubble.

The article is not long.

Haruki Murakami did not use exaggerated words to pile up praise, nor did he package "The Collapsing Tower" as a lively literary event.

He wrote: "What Kitahara Iwa wrote about was not the roar of a magnificent building collapsing, but the long night when people pretended not to hear the cracks before the roar came."

"The scary thing about this book is that it tells us that bubbles will burst, but that it makes readers realize that they may already be standing in a bubble."

"After I finished reading it, I couldn't fall asleep for a long time."

The last sentence, in particular, has been repeatedly recited by readers.

Haruki Murakami rarely makes such public comments about the works of his contemporaries.

They would never easily write a recommendation article for a book on the day of its release.

But this time he wrote it, and he wrote it with such seriousness.

This further heightened the already extremely high expectations for "The Collapsing Tower" before its release.

It was 8:45 a.m.

The bookstore's roller shutter finally rose.

The queue at the entrance started moving almost instantly.

The black bookshelf, which the shop assistant had set up in advance, was placed in the most conspicuous position near the entrance. The entire wall was covered with copies of "The Collapsing Tower".

Dark cover, a giant gray-white tower, with a red crack at the bottom.

From a distance, they look like a row of silent tombstones.

But the readers were not deterred by this oppressive feeling and reached out to take it directly.

One book, two books —

Someone took their own and then took some for their friend.

Some people, as soon as they received the book, immediately flipped to the dust jacket and the end page of recommendations to check the reviews by Haruki Murakami, Ryu Murakami, and Yoshio Takahashi.

Some people couldn't resist turning to the first page and reading as they walked to the cashier, almost bumping into the person in front of them.

"Sir, please move forward a little."

The shop assistant had to whisper a reminder.

The man then realized what was happening and quickly nodded apologetically, but his gaze remained fixed on the book.

In just twenty minutes, a large chunk of the outermost layer of the book wall was sheared off.

Forty minutes later, the store manager began having employees restock the warehouse.

At 10:30 a.m., the phone in the editorial department of Shinchosha was ringing non-stop.

"The first batch of inventory at the Shinjuku store has run out; please request additional orders."

"The Shibuya store has started limiting purchases to a maximum of two copies per person."

"There was still a queue outside the Ikebukuro store, and the store manager asked if we could order another truckload in the afternoon."

"Sales at the Osaka Umeda store exceeded expectations, and the Kyoto branch is also urging us to increase sales."

"The Nagoya branch said that a reader bought ten copies at once, saying he wanted to give them to his colleagues at work."

Kenichi Sato stood in the center of the office, holding a notebook in his hand, quickly jotting down numbers from various locations while listening to the phone call.

He held the cigarette between his fingers, and from the moment it was lit until it burned out, he hardly took a single puff.

In the editorial department, the people who had been tense all night were now completely awakened by the constant stream of news coming back from all over the country.

The phone kept ringing.

Someone is tracking the sales speed of various bookstores.

Someone is checking the remaining inventory in the warehouse with the distribution department.

Some people even used maps to recalculate the restocking order for the main distribution lines in Tokyo, Osaka, Nagoya, Kyoto, and Fukuoka.

"70% of the first batch of stock at Shinjuku Kinokuniya has already been sold."

"The Shibuya store requested another batch to be delivered before the afternoon."

"People in Umeda, Osaka say the line outside the store hasn't dispersed yet."

"The Kyoto store has already unpacked the inventory that was originally scheduled to be put on the shelves in the afternoon."

A young editor stood by the wall, watching the constantly updating numbers, and couldn't help but whisper, "Three million copies printed initially—"

Is that really enough?

The senior editor next to him did not answer immediately.

After a moment, he looked at the sales summary sheet and said in a low voice, "It's hard to say whether it's enough."

"But from today onwards, the entire Japanese publishing industry will know one thing."

The young editor looked up at him.

A senior editor said, "The name Kitahara Iwao can no longer be judged by the standards of an ordinary literary giant."

By evening, the first day's sales data were gradually being transmitted back to Shincho.

A long silence fell over the editorial office.

When the initial print run of three million copies was decided, everyone knew that it was less a rational market prediction and more a resolute stance taken by Shinchosha to match Kitahara Iwa's status.

In the common sense of physical publishing, this is an astronomical figure that simply cannot be digested in the short term.

But at this moment, when the first-day sales figures from bookstores across the country were actually laid out on the table, only suppressed breathing filled the room.

Two and a half million copies.

On its first day of release.

The massive inventory that was originally thought to be stored in distribution warehouses for months to cope with the long cycle and protracted battle was swept away by the silent but huge crowds of book buyers on the streets in just a dozen hours.

As originally planned, the remaining batches have been sent to local channels to prepare for the Christmas season sales network.

The fatal reality is that the stockpiling defenses in key cities like Tokyo and Osaka were completely breached that afternoon.

This cannot be simply defined as "bestselling".

In this turbulent December, the frenzy among millions of readers for this manuscript is more like a panic-driven "crowding out" of social truth.

Kenichi Sato stood frozen in front of the huge whiteboard in the distribution department.

Watching the urgent numbers reported by bookstores in various districts, and seeing the once ample inventory being repeatedly wiped out and updated...

As midnight approached, the cigarette between his fingers burned from the moment it was lit to the very end, but he never actually took a puff.

Just then, Taro Murata walked in, and the distribution manager was sweating profusely as he reported, "We need to restock the 27 key bookstores in Tokyo before tonight."

"Osaka, Nagoya, and Kyoto are also frantically urging for shipments."

The distribution manager continued, "At this rate of near-out-of-control consumption, the initial print run of three million copies won't last until tomorrow noon."

After listening, Murata Taro did not speak immediately.

A moment later, the seasoned president, who had weathered many storms, turned his gaze away from the zero-inventory warning on the whiteboard.

"Contact all cooperating printing plants immediately."

His voice was hoarse as he said, "All machines running, reprinting."

Kenichi Sato's Adam's apple bobbed slightly, his voice a little tense: "President, how much more?"

Two million copies.

The moment that number was announced, everyone in the distribution department seemed to hold their breath for a second.

The ink from the first edition of three million copies hadn't even dried properly when another two million copies were immediately put into the machines. This almost insane scheduling was unprecedented in the history of Shinchosha.

Murata Taro gave no one room for hesitation. His cold gaze swept over the crowd: "There's still a long line at the bookstore entrance. The readers' emotions have reached a breaking point. The shelves absolutely cannot be empty."

But what's even more striking than the sales figures is the starkly polarized feedback from the first batch of readers after they closed the book.

For general readers and mystery fans, The Collapsed Tower is almost a chilling read.

The opening murder case in a luxury apartment building in Tokyo Bay is cold and oppressive, yet carries a terrifying sense of realism.

The detectives began their investigation in a deserted apartment.

There were no obvious bloodstains on the carpet, and the view of Tokyo Bay at night was beautiful outside the window.

On the coffee table in the living room, however, lay scattered real estate contracts, bank transaction records, joint guarantee letters, and a family photo that had already yellowed.

Everything was respectable, yet everything was also wrong.

As the investigation progresses, readers follow the detectives as they peel back the layers of relationships among the residents of the upscale apartment building.

Every family, on the surface, is like a delicate glass.

Clean, transparent, and sparkles under the light.

But once you break it open, all that flows out is debt, greed, resentment, and mutual dragging.

One person wrote in the bookstore's guestbook: "I thought I was reading a mystery novel, but by the end I realized it was more like an autopsy report."

Some people say, "The scariest thing about Kitahara-sensei is that he wrote about who the murderer was, but why everyone seemed like the murderer."

Hayakawa Rei's route has become the part that readers discuss the most and are least willing to reread.

Many people felt depressed when they read her first signature.

When they read about how she was secretly wiping the sweat from her palms on her skirt while listening to the manager explain the terms in the bank's reception room, some people had already stopped to catch their breath.

When readers saw her return to her apartment and find another document on the coffee table, and her brother didn't even look up, only telling her to go to the bank the next day, many readers almost instinctively closed the book.

This discomfort does not come from sudden, severe pain, but from a slow, gradual depletion.

Hayakawa Mio wasn't destroyed overnight.

She was pushed to the edge little by little, starting with every time she felt "too embarrassed to refuse," every time she "beared it in for now," and every time she wrote her name in the signature column despite being scared.

What's most chilling is that the people around her don't realize they're hurting her.

They were just used to letting her take the blame, used to her nodding, used to her swallowing her unease.

So when she finally asked, "Is it really over now that I've signed this?", the reader didn't feel the tension of waiting for the truth to be revealed in a suspense novel, but rather a suffocating feeling that was closer to real life.

Because many people have heard similar words and seen similar looks.

Even at a family dinner table, during a conversation with relatives, or in a moment of forced compromise, I have said something similar: "I understand."

This is also what hurts readers the most about Hayakawa Mio.

She doesn't seem like a character deliberately pushed into tragedy by the author.

She's just like that person in real life who's always expected to be sensible.

A female reader wrote in a newspaper letter, "My hands were shaking when I saw Hayakawa Rei ask if this was the end of the signings. Because I've asked similar questions at the dinner table at home before."

Some people finished reading it late at night, and by the time they closed the book, it was almost dawn outside.

He had been discussing buying a house with his wife these past few days, and there were several real estate documents and bank loan information on the table.

But after reading "The Collapsed Tower", those papers that originally seemed to be full of "opportunities" suddenly became glaring.

The next day at work, instead of taking a nap on the tram as usual, he put the book in his briefcase and brought it to the office.

During lunch break, colleagues were still discussing which area's houses were more worth buying and which bank offered higher loan amounts.

He remained silent for a long time before finally placing the book on the table.

"You'd better take a look at this."

A colleague joked with him, "What, Professor Kitahara can teach us how to buy a house?"

He shook his head and said, "I'm not teaching you how to buy a house."

He paused, his voice lower than usual.

"It's to let you know that before you sign, you'd better think carefully about what you're signing."

39

But for another group of people, reading "The Collapsed Tower" is not so enjoyable.

The first to become restless were not people in the banking and real estate sectors.

Rather, it refers to middle-class families who are already heavily leveraged or are preparing to "buy the dip" in real estate during the stock market downturn.

They originally bought the book simply because of Kitahara Iwa's name.

Some people want to put this new book on their living room bookshelf to prove that they haven't missed the hottest cultural topics of the moment.

Some people wanted to see what amazing work this literary giant, who had just won an award in Europe, would produce this time.

Some people simply feel that not buying Kitahara Iwao's new book is like missing out on a ticket to a dinner party conversation.

But once they opened it, they quickly became restless.

The middle-aged office worker in the book, who bought a property with high leverage, was subsequently asked by the bank to provide additional collateral, was dragged along by the real estate company and could not sell it, and ultimately took his own life in a luxury apartment, is like a cold mirror, making many people feel a chill down their spines.

The character in the book is practically a reflection of themselves.

The public's blind faith in the myth of Tokyo's land prices, their path dependence on the logic of bank lending, and their wishful thinking and greed in disguising the crisis as a "short-term correction" are all perfectly reflected in this character.

Especially that repeated line —

"Entering the market now is the mark of a truly smart person."

This sentence made many readers feel particularly uncomfortable.

Because this phrase has long since become like a universal psychological placebo, permeating every aspect of their daily lives.

Whether at a clinking of glasses at a dinner party, in a quiet bank reception room, or at the desk signing a real estate reservation form, or even when his wife expressed her instinctive worry about the high debt, they had all skillfully used the same rhetoric to forcefully suppress all their anxieties.

When this fig leaf, used to conceal greed and guilt, is unexpectedly torn away by the words in the book, what comes to mind is not rational reflection.

Rather, it is a fierce anger stemming from being attacked in one's vulnerable position, a form of self-defense.

"That's so unlucky."

"Writing a book like this at the end of the year, isn't that just deliberately trying to annoy people?"

"Novelists are just novelists; they don't understand economics at all."

"It's never that exaggerated in real life!"

"How could Japan possibly collapse?"

"Kitahara Iwa is also called a literary giant? He's gotten arrogant after writing one good book?"

These voices quickly appeared in reader letters, bookstore comments, and newspaper submissions.

They cursed very loudly.

But the harder I tried, the more it felt like I was trying to embolden myself.

The most poignant aspect of "The Collapsing Tower" is that it doesn't depict a nightmare that's far removed from ordinary people's lives.

It depicts the reality that many people are experiencing, believing, and signing themselves.

Within the banking, real estate, and securities sectors, however, the undercurrents present a subtle and unsettling atmosphere.

Their discomfort stemmed precisely from the chilling precision behind the words.

The lines spoken in the book during the confrontations in high-level conference rooms are almost a replica of their daily operations.

Professional terms such as "high-quality assets," "structured financing," "controllable risk," and "natural market recovery" are, during the day, polite tools they use to embellish financial statements and appease clients.

By nightfall, Kitahara Iwa coldly dismantled it, embedding it intact into a doomed trap destined for collapse.

A few days later, in a secluded members-only restaurant in Ginza.

As ice cubes clinked softly in the whiskey glass, someone finally shed their feigned composure in a tipsy state.

The man loosened his tie, and with an indescribable agitation, slammed "The Collapsing Tower" heavily onto the marble tabletop.

"It's just the imagination of laymen. The Ministry of Finance and the Bank of Japan hold absolute control and would never allow a hard landing of that magnitude to occur."

He picked up his glass, trying to dispel the oppressive atmosphere in the private room with this rational argument.

However, no one at the table echoed this sentiment.

The executives present simply stared silently at the black book, their eyes flickering uncertainly in the dim light.

No one responded, because everyone knew how weak this kind of self-comfort was.

If it were just the pointless whining of an ordinary writer, they wouldn't even bother to open it.

But the author of this book is Kitahara Iwao.

After a moment of deathly silence, the usually composed securities executive across from me stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray and broke the silence with a dry voice: "The financial models in the novel can certainly be refuted—but what's frightening is that, given Kitahara Iwao's enormous influence over the Japanese people, he is destroying the faith in the entire market."

The executive stared intently at the novel's cover, as if it were a death sentence already in effect: "Once the general public believes this narrative of collapse and begins to panic-fight and withdraw funds from the bottom—the fictional disasters in the book will immediately transform into an irreversible collapse in reality."

The crisp sound of glasses clinking together abruptly steered the conversation back to optimistic predictions for next year's market.

They tossed out familiar phrases like "policy expectations" and "bottoming out and rebounding," attempting to rebuild confidence with the cliché that "entering the market now is the wise thing to do."

In their words, they spent the entire night belittling Kitahara Iwa as an alarmist layman; but subconsciously, everyone's defenses had been breached by the book's unraveling realism.

What is most chilling is precisely the book's utterly emotionless objectivity.

Kitahara Iwa didn't conduct any moral judgment; he simply and methodically deduced the business processes that these financial elites were so proud of, leading to that irreversible end.

Amidst the extreme panic and unease within the capital market, "The Collapsing Tower" continues to break sales records across the vast public sphere with unstoppable momentum.

The line outside the bookstore did not disperse.

The newspaper's culture section began publishing numerous articles discussing this topic.

The weekly magazine is preparing a special feature.

On the radio program, the host even started asking the guests, "Is Kitahara Iwao's book a novel, or is it a foreshadowing of some impending reality?"

A flood of letters from readers poured into Shincho Publishing House.

Some have praised it as a new peak in social realism literature.

Some people said that after reading it, they looked at their family's loan contract seriously for the first time.

Some people also condemned it as unlucky, pessimistic, and maliciously creating panic.

Kenichi Sato looked at the letters with completely opposite tones and suddenly felt a bit absurd.

People who praise this book say they see reality reflected in it.

Those who criticize this book are not entirely oblivious to reality.

They simply couldn't accept that the crack in the paper extended right to their feet.

Tokyo in December is still brightly lit.

The department store was still playing Christmas carols.

The champagne bottles at the year-end party were still being opened one by one.

But more and more people are opening "The Collapsing Tower" on the tram home, in the living room late at night, or during their lunch break at the company.

Meanwhile, in a luxury apartment...

Akina Nakamori sat quietly in the shadows of the sofa, her lap spread open with "The Collapsing Tower" in the book.

The main light in the living room was not on; only a floor lamp cast a cool glow.

The page stopped at the section where Hayakawa Rei was heading towards the end.

After boiling the last pot of water, the woman in the novel tidied up the loan documents on the table, then sat quietly by the window, watching the Tokyo night view light up.

The entire passage contained no description of emotional breakdown; she simply folded the overdue payment notice in half and neatly pressed it under a yellowed guarantee.

As Nakamori Akina read this descriptive passage, which resembled a documentary video, her fingers, gripping the pages, became somewhat stiff.

It's not that she hasn't seen tragedies or read novels that make people feel sad.

But this time is different.

Because the fictional character on the paper, heading towards a dead end, is clearly himself, who was already pushed to the edge of a cliff a few months ago.

If Kitahara Iwa hadn't sat at the coffee table with me that day, and hadn't used his status as a literary giant to strip the other of his right to speak—

So, the quiet despair that Hayakawa Mio is experiencing right now is the ending she has written for herself in reality.

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