Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

In response to Saito Shigeo's request, Kitahara Iwao simply handed over the notebook.

Saito Shigeo took the sweat-soaked notebook and began to read it in the dim light of the streetlamp.

At first, he appeared casual, even somewhat nonchalant.

In his view, this was at most a rich young master's morbid fascination diary, filled with superficial sympathy for poverty, or a collection of horrific scenes deliberately piled up for the purpose of writing a novel.

however.

When he turned to a few pages in the middle, Shigeo Saito's fingers, which were turning the pages, suddenly stopped.

What he saw was not cheap sentiments like "how miserable" or "so hungry," but lines of cold, almost anatomical, counterintuitive records:

Subject A (24-year-old woman): She didn't fall into depravity because of hunger. The money she earned at the sex industry was enough to pay her rent. But in order to buy designer bags and maintain a respectable image of "looking like a Tokyoite," she willingly took on high-interest loans.

Subject B (middle-aged man): He was hungry, but lost his last 500 yen at a pachinko parlor. More than food, he needed the illusory thrill of "maybe he can turn things around".

Conclusion: Here, what killed them was not poverty, but the distorted desire for wealth fostered by the consumer economy. They were starving corpses suffocated by their desires.

"..."

Upon seeing this, Saito Shigeo abruptly raised his head, his eyes suddenly sharpening as he stared intently at Kitahara Iwao, saying, "Kitahara-kun! Are you concerned not with hunger, but with debt and desire?"

Saito Shigeo closed his notebook, a hint of disbelief in his voice, and said, "Kitahara-kun, don't you think they're pitiful?"

"You slept in this godforsaken place for days, and your final conclusion is that they brought it on themselves?"

Faced with the piercing gaze of this titan of journalism, Kitahara Iwa did not back down. He simply took back his notebook, dusted it off, and replied, "Pitiful? Of course you're pitiful."

"But Mr. Saito, I'm wondering, why is it that in Tokyo, with its abundant resources and GDP that's about to buy up the United States, people live like livestock?"

Kitahara Iwa pointed to the dazzling neon lights of Shinjuku in the distance, then to the stinking sewer at his feet: "Simply hunger can be solved with two rice balls."

"But television, magazines, GG... the whole society is feeding them a poison called consumption."

"Tell them that not buying this makes them losers, tell them that as long as they borrow money, they can have a tomorrow."

"Their bodies are poor, but their minds are filled with the desires of the rich."

"This misalignment is the real reason why they fell into the sewer and couldn't climb out."

boom!

Kitahara Iwao's words were like a bolt of lightning, slashing open the chaotic fog in Saito Shigeo's mind.

He stood frozen in place, completely unaware that the cigarette in his hand had burned his fingers.

"His body is poor, but his mind is filled with the desires of the rich."

This sentence echoed wildly in his mind.

The social ills that had troubled him for so long, which he felt he could never grasp, finally had a clear name.

This is material "fullness" versus spiritual and physical "utter poverty".

These two extreme phenomena exist absurdly and uniformly within the body of this country.

"Well-fed...the poor..."

Saito Shigeo muttered to himself, repeatedly chewing on the word.

After a long while, he let out a long sigh.

The arrogance of a senior figure vanished completely, and his gaze became extremely complex as he looked at the excessively young writer before him.

It contained surprise, appreciation, and even a hint of resentment from a journalist.

"These young people are truly formidable..."

Saito Shigeo gave a wry smile and pulled another cigarette out of his pocket.

This time, however, his hands trembled slightly: "I've been covering the news for decades, and I thought I understood society completely. I never imagined that I wouldn't understand it as well as a novelist like you."

"You have terrifying eyes, Kitahara Iwao."

This is the highest praise a journalist can receive.

Then Saito Shigeo pointed to the brightly lit, air-conditioned Shinjuku in the distance and said, "People in that world are praising stock prices and enjoying air conditioning. They think that's the whole picture of Japan, that this place doesn't exist as long as I don't look at it."

"But, as you said..."

Shigeo Saito pointed to the scorching, smelly cement floor beneath his feet: "This is the future that most of those who have been left behind by the economy will face."

At this point, Saito Shigeo stood up and patted Kitahara Iwao on the shoulder.

"Kibahara-kun, although you write fiction, I write factual reports."

But that's not important.

Saito Shigeo's eyes gleamed with a fire of mission as he said, "You must write down what's in the notebook. I will too."

"Before those waving ten-thousand-dollar bills completely drown out these cries, we must use our pens to give voice to these starving corpses suffocating from their desires!"

As soon as the words were spoken, a brief, deathly silence fell over the suffocatingly hot underpass.

Only the occasional distant howls of a drunkard and the buzzing of mosquitoes hitting streetlights provided context for this resounding conversation.

Saito Shigeo didn't say anything more.

For creators of their caliber, that one moment of soul resonance is worth more than a thousand words.

It is a kind of firelight in each other's eyes that only those who are in the dark can see.

a long time.

Saito Shigeo, supporting his already numb knees, slowly stood up.

There was no formal farewell, nor any of the hypocritical social etiquette of exchanging business cards.

Saito Shigeo glanced deeply at Kitahara Iwa, who was still sitting on the cardboard, his eyes filled with a tacit understanding and expectation that only his kind could comprehend.

Then, he turned around, waved to Kitahara Iwa with his back to him, and said, "I'm leaving."

These two simple words perfectly encapsulate the essence of this age-crossing handover ceremony.

At this point, only half an hour had passed since they met.

But for Saito Shigeo, those half hours were enough for him to see clearly the monster of the times called "the well-fed poor".

Before leaving, he glanced at the three young editors who were still standing in the distance, unwilling to approach because they thought it was dirty and they were afraid of mosquitoes.

Then, pointing to Kitahara Iwa, who was still sitting on the cardboard box, head down, taking notes, he coldly said to the three young men, "Stop thinking all day about how to write pretty articles. Want to write something truly vivid and relatable?"

Saito Shigeo's voice echoed in the sweltering night: "Go learn from Kitahara-kun and see how he resists scratching his mosquito bites."

After saying that, Saito Shigeo walked into the night without looking back, leaving three young men with flushed faces staring blankly at his retreating figure.

This scene unfolded without flashbulbs, without extensive media coverage, and even a passing homeless person didn't give it a second glance.

But no one present expected this.

This sweltering valley, nameless on any map and filled with the stench of urine and an atmosphere of despair, unexpectedly became, on this one night, two earth-shattering masterpieces of the Heisei era—

The common birthplace of "The Well-Fed Poor," a documentary literature exposing the false prosperity of the bubble economy, and "The Cry," a social realist mystery that tears open the cruel scars of the lower class.