Having discovered the curious effect of composing in a foreign language, thereby acquiring a creative rhythm distinctly my own, I returned my Olivetti to the closet and once more pulled out my sheaf of manuscript paper and my fountain pen. Then I sat down and “translated” the chapter or so that I had written in English into Japanese. Well, “transplanted” might be more accurate, since it wasn’t a direct verbatim translation. In the process, inevitably, a new style of Japanese emerged. The style that became mine, one that I had discovered. “Now I get it,” I thought. “This is how I should be doing it.” It was a moment of true clarity, when the scales fell from my eyes.

  Some people have said, “Your work has the feel of translation.” The precise meaning of this statement escapes me, but I think it may hit the mark in one way and entirely miss it in another. Since the opening passages of my first novella were, quite literally, “translated,” the comment is not entirely wrong; yet it applies merely to my process of writing. What I was seeking by writing first in English and then “translating” into Japanese was no less than the creation of an unadorned “neutral” style that would allow me freer movement. My interest was not in creating a watered-down form of Japanese. Rather, I wanted to deploy a type of Japanese as far removed as possible from the strictures of “serious literature” in order to speak in my own natural voice. That required desperate measures. I would go so far as to say that, at that time, I may have regarded Japanese as no more than a functional tool.

  Some see this as an affront to our national language. In fact, I have been criticized on precisely those grounds. Language, though, is tough and resilient, a tenacity backed up by a long history. Its autonomy cannot be lost or seriously damaged, however roughly it is handled. It is the right of all writers to experiment with the possibilities of language and expand the range of its effectiveness. Without that adventurous spirit, nothing new can ever be born. In a certain way, I continue to regard Japanese as a kind of tool, even today. I would even say that explorations into its “toolness” may lead to the regeneration of the Japanese language.

  At any rate, I rewrote the “rather boring” novel I had just finished from top to bottom in the new style that I had just developed. Although the story line remained more or less intact, the mode of expression was entirely different. Different, too, was its impact on the reader. It was, of course, the short novel Hear the Wind Sing. I wasn’t entirely satisfied with the way it turned out. When I reread it, I found it immature and riddled with faults. Only twenty to thirty percent of what I was trying to say came across. Yet it was my first novel, and I had managed to write in a form that somehow worked, so I was left with the feeling that I had taken a big first step. To put it another way, I felt as though I had realized some of the promise carried to me by my “epiphany.”

  Writing in my new style felt more like performing music than composing literature, a feeling that stays with me today. It was as if the words were coming through my body instead of from my head. Sustaining the rhythm, finding the coolest chords, trusting in the power of improvisation—it was tremendously exciting. When I sat down at the kitchen table each night and went back to work on my novel (if that’s what it was) using my new style, I felt like I was holding a new, cutting-edge tool in my hands. Boy oh boy, was it fun! And it filled the spiritual void that had loomed with the approach of my thirtieth birthday.

  This radical shift would be more apparent if I could compare Hear the Wind Sing with its “rather boring” predecessor, but, unfortunately, I threw the latter away. Nor do I have any clear memory of what it was like. I know now that I should have held on to it, but it was useless as far as I could see, so I threw it in the trash without a second thought. Now all I can recall is that it wasn’t much fun to write. Hardly surprising, given the sort of style I was using. The problem was that it had not flowed naturally. Writing in that style had been like exercising in clothes that didn’t fit.

  * * *

  —

  It was a sunny Sunday morning in spring when I got the call from an editor at the literary journal Gunzo telling me that Hear the Wind Sing had been short-listed for their Prize for New Writers. Almost a year had passed since the season opener at Jingu Stadium, and I had already turned thirty. It was around eleven a.m., but I was still fast asleep, having worked very late the night before. I picked up the receiver, but I was so groggy I had no idea at first who was on the other end or what he was trying to say. To tell the truth, by that time I had quite forgotten having sent Hear the Wind Sing to Gunzo. Once I had finished the manuscript and put it in someone else’s hands, my desire to write had completely subsided. Composing it had been, so to speak, an act of defiance—I had written it very easily, just as it came to me—so the idea that it might make the short list had never occurred to me. In fact, I had sent them my only copy. If they hadn’t selected it, it probably would have vanished forever. I probably never would have written another novel. Life is strange, when you think about it.

  The editor told me there were five finalists, including me. I was surprised. But I was also very sleepy, so the reality of what had happened didn’t really sink in. I got out of bed, washed, dressed, and went out for a walk with my wife. Just when we were passing Sendagaya Elementary School on Meiji Avenue, I noticed a carrier pigeon hiding in the shrubbery. I saw that it seemed to have a broken wing, so I picked it up. A metal tag was affixed to its leg. Cradling it in my hands, I carried it to the small police station in Omotesando, adjacent to the Dojunkai-Aoyama Apartments (the present home of Omotesando Hills). As I walked along the side streets of Harajuku, the warmth of the wounded pigeon sank into my hands. I felt it quivering. That Sunday was bright and clear, and the trees, the buildings, and the shop windows sparkled in the spring sunlight.

  That’s when it hit me. I was going to win the prize. And I was going to go on to become a novelist who would enjoy some degree of success. It was an audacious presumption, but for some reason I was sure at that moment that it would happen. Completely sure. Not in a theoretical way, but directly and intuitively.

  * * *

  —

  I can still remember, with total clarity, how I felt when whatever it was came fluttering down into my hands that day thirty years ago on the grass behind the outfield fence at Jingu Stadium; and I recall just as clearly the warmth of the wounded pigeon in those same hands that spring afternoon a year later, near Sendagaya Elementary School. I always call up those sensations when I think about what it means to write a novel. Such tactile memories have taught me to trust in that something I carry within me and to dream of the possibilities it offers. How wonderful it is that these sensations still reside within me!

  * * *

  —

  There is no basic change today—I feel the same pleasure and excitement I felt when I wrote my first novel. I wake up early, brew fresh coffee in the kitchen, pour some in a big mug, sit down at my desk, and boot up my computer (there are times, I must admit, when I miss the days of manuscript sheets and my fat Montblanc fountain pen). Then I sit there and muse about what to write that day. Such moments are pure bliss. To tell the truth, I have never found writing painful. Neither (thankfully) have I ever found myself unable to write. What’s the point of writing, anyway, if you’re not enjoying it? I can’t get my head around the idea of “the suffering writer.” Basically, I think, novels should emerge in a spontaneous flow.

  I do not consider myself a genius in any way, shape, or form. Nor do I think I am equipped with some special sort of talent. Of course, the fact that I have been able to make a living as a professional writer for over thirty years means that I am not entirely lacking in ability. I guess something within me—some aspect of my temperament, perhaps—must have been at work from the beginning. That line of thinking, though, has no payoff for me. I’ll leave it for someone else—if, in fact, such a person exists—to carry forward.

  What has been (and continues to be) most important for me is my direct, physical awareness that some special power has given me the chance to write novels. I have been able to grasp that opportunity and, with no little help from Lady Luck, turn it into a career. Looking back, I have no idea who granted me this license, only that someone or something did. All I can say is that I am truly grateful. And that I will treasure it—as I treasured that wounded pigeon—while I go on happily turning out my fiction. What comes after that is anybody’s guess.

  On Literary Prizes

  Next, I think I’d like to move on to talk about literary prizes. Let’s start with a concrete example, the Ryūnosuke Akutagawa Prize. This is a sensitive, rather tricky topic for me, which makes it somewhat awkward, but I think it’s a story I should tell at this juncture, even at the risk of being misunderstood. That’s the feeling I have, anyway. Moreover, talking about the Akutagawa Prize is a good introduction to talking about prizes more generally, while talking about prizes may be a good angle from which to approach one aspect of the literary world in modern Japan.

  * * *

  —

  I was leafing through a literary journal not long ago when I came across a column at the back that included the following passage: “What a magical allure the Akutagawa Prize possesses! The commotion stirred up by the writers who don’t win serves merely to enhance its reputation, while its growing authority is confirmed by the case of Haruki Murakami, who removed himself from the literary world after being dropped from the running.” The author’s name was listed as Yuyu Aima, clearly a pseudonym.

  It is a fact that over thirty years ago, two of my works were short-listed for the Akutagawa Prize and both failed to win. Since then, I have pursued my work quite removed from what might be called the literary world. These two facts, however, are unrelated: that I didn’t (or couldn’t) win bears no connection whatsoever to my distance from the literary world, a place I knew little about and had no desire to set foot in. It annoys me that someone has, quite arbitrarily, tried to create a cause-and-effect relationship between the two.

  There may be readers who believed this story. In a worst-case scenario, it might even become the standard version. I have always thought that writing was based on the ability to distinguish between inference and assertion, but I guess that isn’t the case. Perhaps I should be happy that the word on the street today is that I “removed myself,” unlike in the old days, when I was supposedly “rejected” by the literary establishment.

  * * *

  —

  One factor that helps explain my relative distance from the literary world is that I never set out to become a writer in the first place. I was just a regular guy who in his spare time tossed off a novel that happened to go on to win a new writers’ prize. As a result, I knew very little about the literary world and the awards they hand out.

  I also had a full-time job, which meant that my hands were full taking care of the many things I had to look after. I was too busy, in fact, to think of anything other than what was absolutely necessary (a few clones would have been useful!). Once I had become a full-time writer, I was less busy, but because of my conscious decision, my schedule involved waking up and going to bed early, as well as regular physical workouts, so that I seldom went out at night. Not once, for example, did I visit those writers’ watering holes clustered in the Golden Street area not far from Shinjuku Station, where so much literary socializing takes place. It’s not that I felt any antipathy toward Golden Street and its inhabitants. Rather, I lacked the time or the need to go there—in practical terms, there was just no reason to go.

  I have no idea whether or not the Akutagawa Prize possesses any “magical allure” or “authority.” I have never given the matter any thought. If there is a magical allure of the sort the author of the column describes, it certainly hasn’t found its way to my neck of the woods. Perhaps it took the wrong road.

  * * *

  —

  Although my first two novels, Hear the Wind Sing and Pinball, 1973, were short-listed for the Akutagawa Prize, to tell the truth (and I hope you believe me when I say this) I really didn’t care if they won or lost.

  I had been overjoyed, however, when Hear the Wind Sing had won the Gunzo Prize. I don’t mind telling that to the world. It was truly a landmark event in my life, my ticket to becoming a writer. With it, I was guaranteed entry; without it, the story might have ended very differently. Doors began to open to me. With that ticket in hand, I thought, anything was possible. I had no time to spare to think one way or the other about the Akutagawa Prize.

  Another thing was that I really didn’t consider my first two novels all that good. I knew in my heart that they only represented a small fraction—maybe twenty or thirty percent—of what I was capable of doing. I had never written anything before and had mastered none of the basic skills needed to put together a novel. Looking back, I think that it’s possible that the two books are actually better precisely because I was working at only twenty or thirty percent of my full capacity. At any rate, I was dissatisfied with a lot of things in those first two works.

  Therefore, while receiving the Prize for New Writers was a great help, winning the Akutagawa Prize at that juncture might have been a hindrance, a burden of high expectations I would have had to carry forward. At my stage of development, it seemed a bit too much.

  Give me time, I thought, and I can turn out something much better. This may sound arrogant for someone who not long before had never given a thought to writing a novel. It even sounds arrogant to me. In all honesty, though, anyone who lacks that level of arrogance is unlikely to become a novelist.

  * * *

  —

  The media had listed both Hear the Wind Sing and Pinball, 1973 as favorites to win the Akutagawa Prize, but although those around me were disappointed, I myself was relieved not to have won, for the reasons I have previously mentioned. I could also understand how the jury members felt rejecting my work. “I guess that’s the way things are” was more or less my attitude. At least I didn’t bear any grudges. Nor did I try to stack up what I had done against the other works under consideration.

  My relief also stemmed from the fact that I would not have to deal with the publicity that would follow winning the Akutagawa Prize, which would have disrupted my daily life. I had no choice but to hobnob with the people who came to the jazz café. In that line of work, you’re not supposed to simply disappear when patrons appear whom you don’t want to meet (although there were times I got so fed up I did just that).

  After I had been passed over twice for the Akutagawa Prize, I was informed by my editors that I was now considered “used goods,” and should not expect to be nominated again. I remember how weird that felt. Since the Akutagawa is meant for new writers, unsuccessful candidates are dropped from their list at a certain point. Although the columnist who described this situation reported that some writers were considered as many as six times, I was “used goods” after only two kicks at the can. I don’t know how or why that came about, but whatever the circumstances, apparently the fact that Haruki Murakami was “used goods” quickly became the consensus throughout the literary establishment. That’s how they operate, I guess.

  Still, I wasn’t overly disappointed to have become “used goods.” In fact, it was a relief not to have to think further about the Akutagawa Prize. I remember how strangely antsy the people around me got as decision day approached—that bothered me more than whether I won or not. I could feel their expectations mounting, and with them something like a mild irritation. My candidacy was also picked up by the media, which elicited a bigger response, and some backlash, adding to my woes. Given that these two occasions led to such gloomy repercussions, it was depressing to think it might continue year after year.

  What weighed on me the most were the reactions of those who tried to console me. No sooner had the results been announced than a stream of people would show up to give me a pep talk. “Too bad this time,” they would say. “But don’t worry—you’ll win it next time around.” I knew that by and large, they were saying this out of kindness, but all the same I had a hard time finding the right words to respond. I mean, I had to say something—I couldn’t just go through the motions. If I had confessed that I really didn’t care that much, though, they would have refused to take what I said at face value, and both of us would have been made uncomfortable.

  NHK created problems, too. No sooner was my candidacy announced than they phoned asking me to go on TV if I won. Given my busy schedule and the fact that I hated appearing in public (it’s just not my thing), I refused, but instead of backing off they became more insistent, sometimes even angry. In short, candidacy for the Akutagawa Prize brought me nothing but headaches.

  * * *

  —

  Why does the public get so wrapped up in the Akutagawa Prize? It sometimes baffles me. Not long ago, for example, I was visiting a bookstore when I saw a stack of a book titled The Reasons Haruki Murakami Failed to Win the Akutagawa Prize or something like that. I haven’t read it—how could I buy something with such an embarrassing title?—so I don’t know what those “reasons” are, but I can’t help finding it strange that such a book would be published in the first place.

  If I had won the Akutagawa Prize, what possible difference would it have made to my life or to the fate of the world at large? The world would be more or less as it is today, while my writing would have proceeded at about the same pace, give or take a few minor differences along the way, for the past thirty-odd years. With or without the prize, my novels would have been embraced by the same readers, and would have ticked off the same people as well (I seem to have a talent for rubbing people the wrong way).