Chapter 269 - 269: Official Recognition as a Literary Master, Imperial Commendation

August 23rd, a Friday.

NHK Broadcasting Center — Kanasugi Hall, the network's largest studio.

This hall, normally used for recording special programs and large-scale roundtables, had tonight been arranged into a solemn yet elegant literary salon.

At the center of the stage, five sofa chairs sat in a half-circle, each separated by a small round table bearing a simple arrangement of seasonal flowers.

Behind them rose a massive wall of bookshelves, displaying classics of Japanese literature from celebrated modern and contemporary authors.

Warm light spilled from LED strips along the shelves, lending the whole scene a sense of accumulated time.

In one corner of the studio sat roughly thirty members of a live audience.

Yukinoshita Shizuku was seated among them.

Most of the audience were handpicked literature enthusiasts, publishing house representatives, and members of the press.

Everyone sat quietly, waiting for the program to begin.

Tsushima Kagami sat in the chair farthest to the left.

He wore a dark navy suit jacket today, a white shirt underneath, no tie.

Yukinoshita Shizuku had insisted on combing his hair properly before he left the house, leaving it noticeably neater than usual.

Afterward, a stylist in the makeup room had given it a sharp, handsome finish.

"Nervous?"

Kobayashi Tomoaki, seated beside him, asked in a low voice.

"I'm fine."

Tsushima Kagami said, his expression unchanged, though his fingers tapped some unconscious rhythm against his knee.

Clearly, though he'd already handled plenty of media appearances and interviews, facing a broadcast of this caliber from NHK still left him a little unsettled inside.

Even having already rehearsed the script with the other guests beforehand, he still felt a faint edge of nerves.

If he slipped up somewhere, or bit his tongue by accident, that would be thoroughly embarrassing.

Kobayashi Tomoaki had clearly seen through him, and smiled without calling him out on it.

Given today's lineup of guests, it wasn't just a seventeen-year-old high schooler who'd feel the pressure — even Kobayashi himself, who'd spent years cleaning up after every kind of author scandal and running press conferences, would be sweating through his palms sitting here.

Aside from Kobayashi Tomoaki and Tsushima Kagami, the remaining guests, seated right to left, were as follows.

Kitagawa Saburo, seventy-one, repeatedly nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature, one of the representative figures of postwar Japanese literature.

He wore a dark gray haori over a kimono, his white hair combed without a single strand out of place, the wrinkles on his face like knife-cut lines, each one holding decades of age and wisdom within it.

His gaze was sharp — when he looked at someone, it felt like he was appraising them.

Inoue Yasushi, eighty-two, chairman of the Japan Writers Association, novelist and poet, author of an enormous body of work.

He wore a traditional black montsuki haori, radiating the composed elegance of an old-school man of letters.

Miura Shumon, sixty-eight, Commissioner of the Agency for Cultural Affairs, former professor at the University of Tokyo, also a novelist and critic.

He wore a dark blue suit with a wine-red tie, looking less like a bureaucrat and more like a mild-mannered university professor.

Kosaka Tadashi, sixty-one, professor in the Faculty of Letters at the University of Tokyo.

Kobayashi Tomoaki, forty-eight, editor-in-chief of Shinchosha, and Snow Country's responsible editor.

He wore a black suit with a silver tie, looking several times more formal than usual.

And Tsushima Kagami — a high schooler, and today's actual subject of the interview — sat in the very corner seat.

This seating arrangement had been deliberate on the production team's part.

"Youngest sits at the edge" satisfied Japanese seating etiquette while also visually framing a contrast between "the old generation" and "the new."

"Countdown starting."

The director's voice came from behind the monitors.

"Five, four, three, two, one."

The red light in the studio came on.

Host Yamazaki Yukiko wore a deep purple suit tonight, her hair pinned up, giving her an especially dignified look.

She stood at the center of the stage, facing the camera, her voice sweet yet carrying a note of poise and competence.

"Good evening, and welcome to this special edition of Literary Frontline — 'The Present and Future of Literature.'"

"I'm your host, Yamazaki Yukiko."

"Today, we're deeply honored to welcome five heavyweight guests to our studio, to discuss together a question that everyone who cares about Japanese literature has been asking."

"Does pure literature, in this era, still have a future?"

Having said this, Yamazaki turned slightly and extended a hand toward the guest seats.

"First, allow me to introduce today's guests."

"Chairman of the Japan Writers Association, Mr. Inoue Yasushi."

Inoue Yasushi bowed slightly, a gentle smile on his face.

"Renowned author, repeatedly nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature, Mr. Kitagawa Saburo."

Kitagawa Saburo only gave a small nod, his expression barely shifting.

"Commissioner of the Agency for Cultural Affairs, Mr. Miura Shumon."

Miura Shumon stood, bowed, then sat back down, his smile easy and open.

"Professor of the Faculty of Letters at the University of Tokyo, Mr. Kosaka Tadashi."

Professor Kosaka rose and bowed slightly, his expression unreadable.

"Editor-in-chief of Shinchosha, Mr. Kobayashi Tomoaki."

Kobayashi Tomoaki stood and bowed a full ninety degrees toward the audience, drawing a ripple of soft laughter.

"And..."

Yamazaki's gaze landed on the far left.

"Acclaimed rising author, Mr. Tsushima Kagami."

Applause rose again through the studio.

But this time it wasn't the perfunctory, courteous applause from before.

After all, everyone knew this program existed mainly for this one high schooler — no matter how illustrious the other guests' credentials, they were, in a sense, simply the accompaniment.

Tsushima Kagami stood, bowed properly, and sat back down.

His expression showed no visible change.

"Now then, allow me to ask the first question."

Yamazaki sat down in the host's seat, facing the five guests.

"The release of Snow Country has set off an unprecedented wave of interest in pure literature across Japanese society."

"According to statistics, as of this week, Snow Country's cumulative sales have already surpassed one million copies, and continue to climb."

"But at the same time, there's a voice saying this is merely a special case — an isolated literary phenomenon."

"That in the broader social landscape, pure literature's readership keeps shrinking, and the space for pure literature to survive keeps being squeezed."

"I'd like to ask each of our guests — how do you see this state of 'ice and fire' coexisting?"

Having finished, Yamazaki's gaze went first to Inoue Yasushi.

This was standard practice for Japanese interview programs — the most senior figure speaks first.

Inoue Yasushi was silent for two seconds, then slowly began.

"I've worked at the Writers Association for many years, and I've watched with my own eyes as the number of pure-literature readers has changed."

"Thirty years ago, a work of pure literature selling fifty thousand copies barely counted as passing. A hundred thousand was normal. Two hundred thousand was worth throwing a celebration for."

"Now, if a work of pure literature sells ten thousand copies, the publisher lights incense in gratitude. Fifty thousand is a hit. A hundred thousand is a miracle."

He paused, his gaze sweeping the room.

"From that angle, Snow Country's million-copy sales really are a miracle-like number."

"But..."

His tone shifted.

"Precisely because it's a miracle, it's something we should be wary of."

"A miracle means it can't be replicated. It means it isn't the norm."

"If the entire pure-literature industry is shrinking, and only one author is bucking the trend, then we shouldn't just celebrate that one author's success — we should ask why only he could do it. Where do the rest fall short? What's wrong with the industry as a whole?"

When Inoue Yasushi finished, he turned his head slightly, glanced at Tsushima Kagami beside him, and gave a faint smile.

Tsushima Kagami noticed the chairman's gaze and nodded back toward Inoue Yasushi in acknowledgment.

Yamazaki nodded and turned to Kitagawa Saburo.

"Mr. Kitagawa, what's your view?"

Kitagawa Saburo didn't answer right away.

He rested his hands on his knees, entirely composed, as if gathering his thoughts.

After a good while, he finally spoke.

"Mr. Inoue is right — this is a miracle."

"But what I'd rather point out is that this miracle didn't happen by accident."

"I finished reading Tsushima's Snow Country on the third day after its release."

"That includes all of Tsushima's previous work, right down to his short story 'Cheesecake.'"

"My first impression after finishing it was that this young man understands the struggles of our generation."

Kitagawa Saburo's tone was flat, but what he said made everyone in the room lean in.

"Mr. Kitagawa, could you elaborate?"

Yamazaki followed up at just the right moment.

"I can."

Kitagawa Saburo gave a slight nod.

"Our generation grew up on the ruins of the postwar era. We lived through defeat, occupation, reconstruction, the era of high economic growth — and our literature was always answering one question: what is Japan?"

"Some of our elders answered it with an aestheticized, classical touch. Some answered it through violence and tragedy. Others answered it through the surreal and the existential."

"Our generation spent our whole lives trying to answer that question. Some of us found an answer. Some didn't."

He paused and glanced at Tsushima Kagami.

"But Tsushima's generation is different."

"They never lived through war, never lived through the poverty and chaos of the postwar years. By the time they were born, Japan was already the world's second-largest economy."

"So they don't need to answer the question of what Japan is."

"What they need to answer is a different question — in an age of material abundance, where should the human spirit find its place?"

"And so much of Tsushima's work is, precisely, an answer to that question."

When Kitagawa Saburo finished, the studio fell quiet for a moment.

Then the applause rose.

"Thank you, Mr. Kitagawa."

Yamazaki turned to Miura Shumon.

"Commissioner Miura, as head of the Agency for Cultural Affairs, how do you view the current state of pure literature?"

Miura Shumon adjusted his glasses, his smile still gentle, though his tone had grown a shade more serious than before.

"To be honest, as Commissioner of the Agency for Cultural Affairs, I find the current state of pure literature worrying."

"According to last year's Agency survey, the proportion of Japanese citizens who don't read — meaning they haven't read a single book in a month — has already exceeded fifty percent."

"Among those, the non-reading rate for people aged twenty to thirty is as high as sixty-seven percent."

"That's a very grim reality."

"But at the same time, I'd like to point to another fact."

"While fewer people are reading print books, the demand for stories hasn't decreased."

"Manga, anime, games, film, television dramas — all of these are, in their own way, telling stories."

"Readers have simply switched mediums. They haven't abandoned narrative itself."

Having said this, Miura Shumon's gaze turned toward Tsushima Kagami.

"From that angle, Mr. Tsushima's work offers a very important insight."

"Which is that a good story, no matter the era, will always find people willing to read it."

"Just as Mr. Kitagawa said, the success of Snow Country — and indeed all of Mr. Tsushima's prior work — isn't accidental."

"It proves something: that pure literature isn't dead."

"It simply needs to innovate in form, refresh its expression, and change the way it communicates with readers."

"And I believe the New Sensation School that Mr. Tsushima has pioneered with Snow Country is exactly this kind of innovative attempt."

Called out by name, Tsushima Kagami gave the Commissioner a slight bow of acknowledgment.

Miura Shumon smiled and continued.

"As the Agency for Cultural Affairs, we're also thinking about how to support and promote pure literature."

"For instance, we're considering establishing a Pure Literature Promotion Fund, to support young writers' creative work and fund the overseas translation and publication of pure-literature works."

"But what we can do will always be limited. Real change ultimately has to come from the writers themselves."

When Miura finished, Yamazaki turned to Professor Kosaka.

"Professor Kosaka, I understand you were among Mr. Tsushima's earliest readers, and have even written several substantial academic papers on his work."

"You're probably one of the people who understands his creative trajectory best. How do you view his path from The Setting Sun to Snow Country?"

Professor Kosaka cleared his throat and sat up straighter.

"Honestly, I often feel that watching Mr. Tsushima's creative journey is like watching a condensed version of literary history."

"No Longer Human inherits and develops postwar literature. The Setting Sun is an elegy for the decline of the aristocratic class. Kokoro dissects the spiritual crisis of Meiji-era intellectuals. The Sound of Waves is a hymn to youth and purity."

"And Snow Country..."

Professor Kosaka paused, his tone growing more solemn.

"Snow Country is an exploration of an entirely new literary language."

"What Mr. Tsushima does in Snow Country, put simply, is depict the objective world through subjective sensation."

"Sounds simple, doesn't it?"

"But putting it into practice is almost impossibly difficult."

"Because subjective sensation is the hardest thing to pin down with language."

"It's fluid, elusive, different for every person."

"And to capture something so fluid in written words, and have readers resonate with it, requires an extraordinary command of language."

"And on that front, Mr. Tsushima has succeeded."

Having said this, Professor Kosaka glanced at Tsushima Kagami, his eyes carrying something like the proud gaze of a fan looking at his favorite idol.

"So I feel that Snow Country isn't just Tsushima's personal peak — it's also a brilliant answer that Japanese pure literature has turned in as the twentieth century draws to a close."

Yamazaki turned to Kobayashi Tomoaki.

"Editor-in-chief Kobayashi, as the publisher and Mr. Tsushima's talent scout, how do you view Snow Country's market performance?"

Kobayashi Tomoaki smiled and picked up the microphone on the table.

"Market performance? Three words — didn't see it coming."

The whole room laughed.

"I'm serious."

Kobayashi Tomoaki went on.

"In all our years publishing pure literature at Shinchosha, we've never seen anything like this."

"A book selling out fifty thousand copies within half a day — that's rare even in light novels and manga, let alone pure literature."

"But there's another number I'd rather mention — of the readers who bought Snow Country, forty-three percent were under twenty years old."

His tone grew visibly more animated as he mentioned the figure.

"Forty-three percent. What does that mean?"

"It means Snow Country has successfully brought pure literature into young people's field of vision. It means the young people we thought had given up on reading are actually willing to read — they just needed a book that could truly move them."

"And Snow Country is that book."

When Kobayashi Tomoaki finished, applause rose once more.

Finally, Yamazaki's gaze settled on Tsushima Kagami.

"Mr. Tsushima, after hearing what your seniors have said, is there anything you'd like to add?"

Tsushima Kagami picked up the microphone and let it hang in silence for a moment.

The studio went quiet, everyone waiting for the young man's answer.

"What I want to say is... thank you."

He gave a small bow.

"Thank you to Mr. Inoue, Mr. Kitagawa, Mr. Miura, Professor Kosaka, Mr. Kobayashi, and everyone who's read and loved Snow Country."

"Honestly, when I was writing Snow Country, I wasn't thinking about all that."

"I never thought about founding some new school, never thought about saving pure literature, never even thought about how many copies it might sell."

"I just wanted to write a story. A slightly sorrowful story about three people, set in the snow country."

"That's all."

He said it plainly, without any embellishment.

But for some reason, everyone in the room — the audience, the crew, even Kitagawa Saburo and Inoue Yasushi — felt a certain power in that plain answer.

Not the brashness or aggression you'd expect from a young person.

But something calm and restrained, gathering slowly like falling snow.

Kitagawa Saburo looked at Tsushima Kagami, the corner of his mouth curving slightly.

It was the first time all evening he'd shown anything resembling a smile.

Yamazaki checked the time, then turned to face the camera.

"The first half of our discussion has been wonderful. Next, we'll move into the second segment of the program — 'The Future of Pure Literature.'"

"Our guests will continue the discussion, focusing more deeply on the survival and development of pure literature in the twenty-first century."

Staff came up to refresh the guests' tea.

Tsushima Kagami lifted his cup and took a sip.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Kitagawa Saburo, seated at the far right, also lift his cup, take a sip, and glance his way.

Their eyes met briefly in the air.

Kitagawa Saburo gave a small nod.

Tsushima Kagami nodded back.

Neither said anything — and yet it felt as if everything had been said.

Once everyone had rested and touched up their makeup...

Recording resumed.

"For the second segment, let's begin with a statistic."

Yamazaki picked up a cue card in front of her.

"According to a survey by the Agency for Cultural Affairs, over the next twenty years, Japan's total publishing market is projected to shrink from two trillion yen in 1990 to under one point two trillion yen."

"Of that, pure literature's market is expected to contract most severely, by more than sixty percent."

"What does this data mean? It means pure literature will face an unprecedented crisis of survival in the twenty-first century."

"I'd like to ask each of you — facing this crisis, how should pure literature respond?"

Having asked this, Yamazaki turned first to Kitagawa Saburo.

Kitagawa Saburo took up the topic, his tone graver than before.

"I have to start with something that might not be very popular — some of pure literature's decline is self-inflicted."

The room went silent.

No one had expected this titan of the literary world to say something like that so bluntly.

"Mr. Kitagawa, could you explain?"

"I can."

Kitagawa Saburo's voice wasn't loud, but every word landed with weight.

"Our generation of writers, myself included, grew far too accustomed to writing for ourselves."

"Writing what we wanted to write, in the style we wanted to use, not caring whether readers understood, not caring whether they liked it."

"For a long time, the term 'pure literature' was, in effect, a word of privilege."

"It implied loftiness, elitism, exclusivity — it meant that if you couldn't understand it, that was your problem, not mine."

"But that very posture is what pushes readers away."

He paused and took a sip of tea.

"Why does Tsushima's work draw in young readers?"

"Because he doesn't put on airs. His prose is beautiful, but beautiful without pretense."

"His stories run deep, but deep without being obscure. He writes stories about people — not stories about literature."

"So I think if pure literature wants to survive in the twenty-first century, it first has to lower its guard."

"Not lower its standards — change its posture."

When Kitagawa Saburo finished, he glanced at Inoue Yasushi.

Inoue Yasushi picked up the thread.

"Mr. Kitagawa put that very well. As chairman of the Writers Association, I've been thinking about this too."

"Last year, we ran an internal survey within the Association: 'What do you think is the biggest problem facing pure literature?'"

"The top answer was: the distance from readers is too great."

"Many writers sit in their studies, imagining what readers ought to be like, and write according to that imagination."

"But what are real readers actually like? What do they care about? What do they like to read? Why did they give up on pure literature?"

"Most writers can't answer that."

There was a note of regret in Inoue Yasushi's voice.

"So I believe the future of pure literature comes down to two words..."

"'Dialogue.'"

"Dialogue between writers and readers, between the old generation and the new, between pure literature and popular literature, between Japanese literature and world literature."

"Only through dialogue can we learn what readers want, tell readers what we've written, and let pure literature become part of society's conversation again — instead of a monologue isolated in an ivory tower."

Miura Shumon adjusted his glasses and picked up the thread.

"Mr. Inoue's word, 'dialogue,' is very instructive."

"As the Agency for Cultural Affairs, we're also pushing for this kind of dialogue."

"For instance, we're working with the Ministry of Education on the 'Authors in Schools' program, sending active writers into elementary and middle schools to talk with children face-to-face about literature and creative writing."

"The results have been surprisingly good. Many children say it's the first time they've felt literature had anything to do with them."

"So I don't think the future of pure literature can rest on writers alone."

"It needs writers, publishers, the education sector, cultural policymakers, and even readers themselves, all working together."

"It's a systemic undertaking."

When Miura finished, Professor Kosaka picked up the thread.

"Commissioner Miura is right, it is a systemic undertaking. And within that system, education plays a crucial role."

"I currently teach literature at the University of Tokyo, and every year I meet a large number of students."

"Among them, eighty percent had never read a complete work of pure literature before entering university."

"It's not that they didn't want to — no one ever taught them how."

Professor Kosaka's tone grew a little heated.

"We all know a work like Kokoro or Snow Country isn't something you can understand with a casual skim."

"It requires a certain literary sensitivity, a certain amount of reading training. And that sensitivity and training are exactly what our education system lacks."

"Let me give an example. When I have students analyze the opening three lines of Snow Country in class, most of them, after their first read-through, can only say the scenery is beautiful — nothing deeper."

"But when I guide them to notice the image of the 'mirror,' the technique of the 'flowing reflection,' they suddenly realize — oh, you can read it this way too."

"So I think the future of pure literature depends, to a large degree, on whether our education system can cultivate readers who actually know how to read."

"If the next generation doesn't even know how to read pure literature, it doesn't matter how much of it gets written."

When Professor Kosaka finished, Kobayashi Tomoaki nodded and continued.

"Professor Kosaka's words remind me of something."

"After Snow Country's release, we received a great many letters from readers."

"One of them was from a high school girl. She wrote that she'd never read pure literature before, because she couldn't understand it. But after reading Snow Country, for the first time she realized pure literature could be this beautiful."

"That letter moved me deeply."

"It made me realize readers don't refuse to read pure literature — they just hadn't yet found the book that would make them want to."

"And Snow Country happened to become that book for a great many young people."

Having said this, Kobayashi Tomoaki's gaze turned toward Tsushima Kagami.

"So I think Mr. Tsushima's biggest contribution to pure literature isn't the impressive sales figures — it's that he's helped a new generation of readers rediscover the beauty of pure literature."

Yamazaki turned to Tsushima Kagami.

"Mr. Tsushima, what's your view? Does pure literature have a future in the twenty-first century?"

Tsushima Kagami picked up the microphone and was silent for a few seconds.

The studio was so quiet you could hear the hum of the air conditioning.

"I don't know."

Tsushima Kagami said flatly.

Simple. Direct.

"I'm not a prophet. I can't see what pure literature will become in the twenty-first century."

"But..."

He paused, his tone shifting slightly.

"I do know one thing. As long as there are people who feel lonely, pure literature won't die."

The whole room went quiet.

"Because the core of pure literature isn't technique, isn't school, isn't sales figures, isn't awards."

"The core of pure literature is one person trying, through words, to speak to the heart of another."

"When you feel lonely, when you feel like no one in the world understands you, you open a book and discover that someone, a hundred years ago, felt just as lonely as you — and suddenly, you're not so alone anymore."

"That's the value of pure literature."

"It isn't a necessity — just like music, painting, and film aren't necessities."

"But without these things, life would be much poorer."

When Tsushima Kagami finished, the studio fell silent once more.

Then the applause rose.

This time it wasn't polite applause carried along by the mood — it was applause born of genuine resonance.

Kitagawa Saburo looked at Tsushima Kagami and gave a small nod.

Inoue Yasushi nodded too, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes softening.

Miura Shumon even clapped along, his smile deeper than before.

Professor Kosaka smiled, visibly moved.

Kobayashi Tomoaki wore an expression that said 'I knew it would go this way,' grinning ear to ear.

Yamazaki took a deep breath and faced the camera.

"Mr. Tsushima's words have moved even me, the host, deeply."

"Next, we'll move into our final segment — 'The Handover and Hopes Between Old and New Generations.'"

"With us today are Mr. Kitagawa and Mr. Inoue, representing the older generation of Japan's literary world, and Mr. Tsushima, representing the new generation."

"I'd like to ask our two senior gentlemen to say a few words to Mr. Tsushima. It can be an assessment of his work, or your hopes for his future."

"Anything at all."

Having said this, Yamazaki's gaze turned to Inoue Yasushi.

Inoue Yasushi was quiet for a moment, then turned to Tsushima Kagami.

His gaze was gentle — gentle in a way that didn't seem to belong to an eighty-two-year-old man, but rather to a grandfather looking at his grandson.

"Tsushima, I'm eighty-two years old this year."

"It's been sixty-two years since I began writing at twenty."

"In those sixty-two years, I've seen many brilliant young people. Some flared brightly and faded. Some ran out of talent. Some died too young. And some, step by step, became true masters."

"I won't tell you that you're talented — everyone can see that. You don't need me to say it."

"What I want to say is: please stay clear-headed."

"Clear about who you are. Clear about where you came from. Clear about where you're going."

"The voices outside will be loud. There will be plenty of praise, and plenty of temptation."

"Some will lift you up. Some will tear you down. Some will put you on a pedestal. Some will try to drag you off it."

"But remember — you are you. You're not a god, and you're not a demon. You're a writer, someone who speaks to the human heart through words."

"As long as you never forget that, your road will be a long one."

Having finished, Inoue Yasushi looked deeply at Tsushima Kagami.

Tsushima Kagami stood and bowed a full ninety degrees to Inoue Yasushi.

"Thank you, Mr. Inoue. I'll remember that."

When Inoue Yasushi finished, Kitagawa Saburo picked up the microphone.

He didn't speak right away — he looked at Tsushima Kagami for a few seconds first.

"I won't say 'stay clear-headed' too — Mr. Inoue already put it well."

"What I want to say is something else."

Kitagawa Saburo's tone grew heavier than before.

"Tsushima, you're not even twenty this year. When I was twenty, I was still at the University of Tokyo, spending every day buried in the library, reading every classic I could find, foreign and domestic alike. I thought I understood everything back then. I actually understood nothing."

"But you're different."

"What you've written at this age surpasses what many people write in an entire lifetime."

"That's your good fortune — and also your misfortune."

Kitagawa Saburo paused.

"The fortunate part is, you get to stand on a very high starting point and explore literature's further possibilities."

"The unfortunate part is, that starting point is so high that many people spend their whole lives and never reach it."

"Will that make you lose the drive to keep climbing? Will you think, I've already reached the top, there's nothing more to do?"

"I hope not."

"Because the boundaries of literature are wider than anyone can imagine."

"After Snow Country, you might feel you've already reached the peak of pure literature."

"But I'm telling you — you haven't."

"Beyond the peak, there are higher mountains still. It's just that our generation can't climb any further. We need your generation to keep climbing."

"So — I have expectations of you."

"Not for the sake of Japanese literature, not for the sake of pure literature, but for your own sake — go climb higher mountains, go see farther horizons, go write more stories that make this world a little less impoverished."

Having finished, Kitagawa Saburo gave a small nod.

Tsushima Kagami stood again and bowed deeply.

"Thank you, Mr. Kitagawa. I'll do my best."

Yamazaki turned to Miura Shumon.

"Commissioner Miura, as head of the Agency for Cultural Affairs, and as a fellow traveler in literature, is there anything you'd like to say to Mr. Tsushima?"

Miura Shumon smiled and waved a hand.

"Mr. Inoue and Mr. Kitagawa have already said everything an old man could hope to say to a young one. Anything more from me would be redundant."

"But as Commissioner of the Agency for Cultural Affairs, I'd like to say something official."

He turned to Tsushima Kagami, his expression growing more serious.

"Tsushima, your work isn't just literature — it's a calling card for Japanese culture. It's been warmly received overseas, and it's made a real contribution to spreading Japanese culture abroad."

"The Agency for Cultural Affairs will continue to support your work. If there's anything you need from us, please reach out anytime."

"Not as an official speaking, but as someone who hopes Japanese literature can go even further."

When Miura finished, Tsushima Kagami bowed again.

Yamazaki turned to Professor Kosaka.

"Professor Kosaka. Is there anything you'd like to say?"

Professor Kosaka smiled, a touch of emotion in it.

"The first time I read Tsushima's work was in Mr. Kobayashi's office. Back then, it was The Setting Sun."

"When I finished reading The Setting Sun, I knew this person was different."

"But I never imagined he'd come this far."

"Tsushima, there's only one thing I want to say — the road is still long, so take it slow."

"You don't need to rush to write the next Snow Country, don't need to rush to meet everyone's expectations. You're still young, you have plenty of time to experience, to think, to try things."

"I'll be watching you the whole way, watching you go higher and farther."

"So take it slow. Don't rush."

Tsushima Kagami looked at Professor Kosaka and nodded.

He didn't bow — between this old man and this young one, such formal courtesy was no longer necessary.

Yamazaki turned to Kobayashi Tomoaki.

"Editor-in-chief Kobayashi, as Mr. Tsushima's editor, and one of the people who deals with him most, is there anything you'd like to say?"

Kobayashi Tomoaki picked up the microphone and smiled.

"What I want to say is just one thing... my retirement pension depends entirely on Mr. Tsushima."

The whole room burst out laughing.

Professor Kosaka laughed and shook his head, Kitagawa Saburo's mouth curved slightly, and Inoue Yasushi laughed outright, his laughter echoing through the studio.

Tsushima Kagami gave Kobayashi Tomoaki a flat look, then laughed too.

"I'll do my best."

Yamazaki finally faced the camera, her tone growing solemn.

"That brings today's special edition of Literary Frontline — 'The Present and Future of Literature' — to a close."

"Thank you to Mr. Inoue Yasushi, Mr. Kitagawa Saburo, Mr. Miura Shumon, Mr. Kosaka Tadashi, Mr. Kobayashi Tomoaki, and Mr. Tsushima."

"Our guests' remarks tonight have let us glimpse the past, present, and future of Japanese pure literature. They've also given us reason to believe that as long as there are people willing to write, and people willing to read, pure literature will never die."

"Thank you all for watching. Same time next week, Literary Frontline will return with more."

"I'm Yamazaki Yukiko. Good night, everyone."

The red light in the studio went dark.

"Cut! Great work, everyone!"

The director's voice came from behind the monitors.

The live audience rose to their feet, applauding for a long while.

Inoue Yasushi stood, walked up to Tsushima Kagami, and extended a hand.

"Tsushima, I look forward to your next work."

Tsushima Kagami shook his hand, finding it firmer than he'd expected.

"I'll do my best."

Kitagawa Saburo walked over too, stopping in front of Tsushima Kagami and studying him for a few seconds.

Then he did something no one expected.

He clapped Tsushima Kagami solemnly on the shoulder — once.

"Good luck."

Then he smiled, turned, and walked out of the studio.

Tsushima Kagami stood where he was, watching Kitagawa Saburo's retreating back for a long moment without moving.

Miura Shumon walked over, smiling, and handed him a business card.

"Tsushima, this is my personal card. If you ever need the Agency's help, just call this number directly."

"Thank you, Mr. Miura."

Professor Kosaka walked over and patted his back.

"Let's go. You did well tonight."

"Want to go grab something to eat together?"

Kobayashi Tomoaki, trailing behind, muttered.

"I want food too."

"Then Mr. Kobayashi's paying."

Professor Kosaka smiled at Kobayashi Tomoaki.

"Why me?"

Kobayashi Tomoaki protested.

"Because your pension depends on Kagami's earnings."

"Fine, fine."

The three of them walked out of the studio side by side, behind them the noise of the crew packing up equipment and the audience's lingering chatter.

When the program aired, Tsushima Kagami was at home eating dinner.

Yukinoshita Shizuku had made his favorite — beef curry rice.

As she ate, she was picking out the carrots he disliked and moving them into her own bowl, while transferring her beef into his.

Yukino lay at her feet, gnawing on a fish-bone-shaped chew toy.

"Okay, stop giving me more beef, I won't be able to finish it."

Tsushima Kagami put some of the beef back into Yukinoshita Shizuku's bowl.

Just then, Yukinoshita Shizuku suddenly remembered something.

"Oh right, isn't the program airing right about now?"

She glanced at the clock.

"Oh no, it's starting right now."

She dropped her spoon and hurried to stand in front of the television.

The TV was on, tuned to NHK General.

Right on cue, the sound came through.

"Welcome to this special edition of Literary Frontline..."

Hearing the voice from the TV, Yukinoshita Shizuku plopped down cross-legged right in front of the screen.

"Made it just in time."

She glanced over at Tsushima Kagami, who was still eating.

"Kagami, the program's starting."

"Mm."

Tsushima Kagami didn't even look up, continuing to shovel rice into his mouth.

"You're not going to watch?"

Nayotake asked curiously.

"What's there to watch?"

Tsushima Kagami turned and smiled at Yukinoshita Shizuku.

"It's just me saying things I already said once."

"And weren't you there in person anyway?"

"Watching it live and watching it on TV feel completely different."

Yukinoshita Shizuku picked up the remote and settled in to watch the screen.

Tsushima Kagami kept listening to the program's sound while slowly eating his curry rice.

Then Yukinoshita Shizuku suddenly let out an "ah."

Tsushima Kagami turned to look at her.

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

Yukinoshita Shizuku smiled and turned back to the TV.

"Honestly, don't just gasp like that and startle me."

"Hey, eat your food and stop bothering me while I'm watching."

By the time Tsushima Kagami finished his curry rice and started drinking his miso soup, he heard Yukinoshita Shizuku choke up beside him.

Tsushima Kagami froze — how does watching a TV program suddenly turn into crying?

He quickly set down his miso soup and went over to her.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

Yukinoshita Shizuku sniffled, looking up at him with a smile.

"It's just... I feel like our Kagami has really become someone amazing."

Tsushima Kagami laughed.

"I was already amazing to begin with."

"But somehow, being on TV really does make it feel different."

"How is it different?"

"Still just two eyes and a mouth."

Tsushima Kagami laughed and flicked her nose.

Yukinoshita Shizuku flicked his nose back, laughing.

"It's just different, that's all."

Once the program had finished airing entirely, Tsushima Kagami's phone suddenly rang.

It was Kobayashi Tomoaki.

Tsushima Kagami answered.

"Kagami! The ratings are in! 22.7 percent! Peak instantaneous rating, 28.3 percent!"

Kobayashi Tomoaki's voice was loud enough to hear clearly without even switching to speakerphone.

"Oh, is that so."

Tsushima Kagami said, entirely unbothered.

"That's it? Just 'oh'?!"

Kobayashi Tomoaki nearly lost it on the other end.

"Do you know what that number means? Higher than prime-time dramas!"

"When did Mr. Kobayashi transfer over to work at NHK's studio?"

Tsushima Kagami teased him over the phone, smiling.

"So... never mind, I'm used to it."

Kobayashi Tomoaki sighed helplessly.

"By the way, starting tomorrow, expect a lot more media reaching out to you. Get ready."

"What is there to get ready for? Isn't that what you're for, blocking them?"

"You little—"

Kobayashi Tomoaki laughed.

"Fine, I'll handle all of it for you."

"Then thank you, Editor-in-Chief Kobayashi."

"Don't. I'm just Mr. Tsushima's manager, that's all."

Laughter echoed from both ends of the line.

After the NHK program aired, the response it triggered exceeded anyone's expectations.

The next morning, the literary sections of every major newspaper carried the interview on their front pages.

The Asahi Shimbun's headline read: 'Kitagawa Saburo Praises Tsushima Kagami for "Understanding a Generation's Struggle."'

The Yomiuri Shimbun's headline read: 'Inoue Yasushi Tells Tsushima Kagami to "Stay Clear-Headed" — A Literary Torch Passed From Old Generation to New.'

The Mainichi Shimbun's headline read: '"As Long As Someone Feels Lonely, Pure Literature Won't Die" — Tsushima Kagami Cuts to the Heart of What Literature Is.'

Sankei Shimbun's headline read: 'NHK Special Program Ratings Break 28% — Why Has Pure Literature Become a Social Sensation?'

Online, it exploded completely.

Every forum related to literature and to Tsushima Kagami was flooded.

Within a single day, more than five thousand comments had piled up.

"He's still a high schooler and he sat there holding a real conversation with titans like Kitagawa Saburo and Inoue Yasushi — Mr. Tsushima is just incredible."

"Watched the program, went and bought Snow Country, cried while reading pure literature for the first time."

"Mr. Inoue's line about 'staying clear-headed' — I got choked up listening to it too."

"The moment Mr. Kitagawa clapped Tsushima on the shoulder, I've rewatched it ten times."

"'As long as there are people who feel lonely, pure literature won't die' — I'm framing that line and hanging it on my wall."

"As a high schooler myself, this is the first time I've felt literature was close to me."

"Thank you, NHK, for making such a wonderful program."

Of course, there were also a few critical voices.

"Who does a kid under twenty think he is, sitting as an equal with the old masters?"

"NHK is overhyping him — are there really no other good young writers out there?"

"I read Snow Country. It's fine, I guess. Way overhyped."

But these voices were quickly drowned out by a much larger wave of support.

The phones at Shinchosha's editorial department rang off the hook again — this time not bookstores demanding restocks, but readers calling to ask when Tsushima's next book was coming, whether they could get an autograph, whether a fan meet-and-greet could be arranged.

Shinchosha's editors spent the entire day shouting into their phones in the big office, their voices going hoarse.

"Mr. Tsushima is currently hard at work on new material."

"Please continue supporting Mr. Tsushima."

"Mr. Tsushima needs his rest too."

Variations of these same replies floated through the office all day long.

Editor-in-chief Kobayashi Tomoaki looked at the Snow Country promotional poster on his desk and suddenly laughed.

The poster's tagline read: 'An avalanche has swept across all of Japan.'

Looking at it now, that prediction had been far too conservative.

This wasn't an avalanche.

This was the arrival of an ice age.

On the third day after the program aired, something happened that shook the entire Japanese literary world.

The Ministry of Education called an emergency press conference.

The Minister of Education himself attended in person.

This alone was highly unusual.

Ordinarily, matters of commendation were announced by bureau-level officials within the Ministry.

A minister showing up in person meant this was no small matter.

The press conference venue was packed — cameras, photographers, voice recorders, crammed shoulder to shoulder.

The Minister of Education stood at the podium, his expression solemn.

"Today, I have two things to announce."

"The first..."

He picked up a document from the table.

"The Ministry of Education has decided to award author Tsushima Kagami the Ministry of Education Literary Award."

A stir rippled through the crowd.

The Ministry of Education Literary Award, while not the very highest literary prize in Japan, was one of the highest official literary honors awarded.

Its past recipients had almost always been established veterans of the literary world, masters long since made.

This was the first time it had ever gone to a high schooler.

"The second matter..."

The Minister's voice rose half a pitch.

"The Ministry of Education has decided to include Tsushima Kagami's novel Snow Country in the national high school Japanese-language textbooks."

The moment those words left his mouth, the press conference erupted.

Included in textbooks.

What did that mean?

It meant that starting the following spring, hundreds of thousands of high schoolers across Japan would study Snow Country in Japanese class.

It meant Tsushima Kagami's name would sit alongside the other great names of literary history, appearing in the table of contents of every national language textbook.

It meant the government had now officially recognized Tsushima Kagami as a "literary master."

Until now, the public had already called him a "literary master," but that was only ever a popular title, with no official endorsement behind it.

Now, through the medium of the textbook, the Ministry of Education was announcing it to all of Japan — to the entire world.

Tsushima Kagami was a literary giant recognized by this nation.

The Minister of Education continued.

"Snow Country is the pinnacle of Japanese pure literature. It pioneered the entirely new literary school known as the 'New Sensation School,' and holds landmark significance in the history of Japanese literature."

"Including Snow Country in our textbooks is meant to give the next generation of young Japanese people access to the finest of Japanese literature, to let them feel the charm of language, the depth of story, and the power of emotion."

"This is also one of the key initiatives in the Ministry's push for our 'Reading Nation' strategy."

Thunderous applause rose from the floor.

Reporters snapped photos in a frenzy, camera flashes lighting the hall like daylight.

That afternoon, the headlines of every major outlet updated at once.

"Ministry of Education Includes Snow Country in Textbooks — Tsushima Kagami Officially Recognized as Literary Master"

"Twenty-Year-Old Textbook Author — Tsushima Kagami Sets a New Record in Japanese Educational History"

"From The Setting Sun to Snow Country — How Tsushima Kagami Changed Japanese Literature in a Single Miraculous Year"

Shinchosha's phones rang off the hook again.

Every media outlet, every bookstore, every reader — everyone wanted to ask the same question.

What was Tsushima Kagami's response?

Kobayashi Tomoaki fielded every call, offering only one line.

"Mr. Tsushima is currently focused on his writing and isn't giving interviews at the moment."

"As for the Ministry of Education's honor, he says he's deeply grateful, and will continue to work hard."

That line was something Kobayashi Tomoaki made up entirely on his own.

Because when he'd called Tsushima Kagami to tell him, Kagami had been taking a nap.

Yukinoshita Shizuku had picked up the phone.

"Mr. Kobayashi, Kagami's asleep."

"Can you wake him?"

"I'll try."

After a moment, Yukinoshita Shizuku's voice came back on the line.

"Sorry, Mr. Kobayashi — Kagami just grunted, rolled over, and went back to sleep."

Kobayashi Tomoaki sighed.

"That's the whole reaction?"

"Oh, and he also said, textbook or no textbook, it's not like it'll pay him a single extra yen in royalties."

Kobayashi Tomoaki was quiet for a moment, then let out an exasperated laugh.

Did this kid have any idea what he was even saying?

"Alright. Got it."

If the Ministry of Education's commendation had already stunned the entirety of Japan, what came next left everyone utterly speechless.

The following day, the Imperial Household Agency issued a brief announcement.

[Imperial Household Agency Notice]

[The Imperial family has today decided to award author Tsushima Kagami the Order of Culture, in recognition of his outstanding contributions to the field of literature.]

[The investiture ceremony will be held on November 3rd at the Imperial Palace.]

After this announcement went out, the entire Japanese literary world fell into a brief silence.

Then it erupted.

The Order of Culture.

This was not an ordinary award.

It was Japan's highest cultural honor, bestowed personally by the Emperor.

Its past recipients had all been unshakeable giants of Japanese literary history.

Every single one had toiled in the literary world for decades, if not an entire lifetime.

And now, a high schooler was about to join those ranks.

It was madness.

Japan had gone mad.

The whole world had gone mad.

But some said —

"No, it's not madness. Once you've read Snow Country, you'll understand — this medal isn't being given for his age. It's being given for his work."

"Snow Country deserves this medal."

"Tsushima Kagami deserves this medal."

That evening, at Tsushima Kagami's home.

When Yukinoshita Shizuku saw the news, the plate in her hands slipped and fell to the floor.

It shattered into pieces with a sharp crack.

"Shizuka! Are you all right?!" Tsushima Kagami rushed out from the kitchen.

"I'm... I'm fine."

Yukinoshita Shizuku crouched down to gather the broken pieces, her hands trembling.

"But... did you see that?"

"I saw it."

Tsushima Kagami fetched a broom and dustpan, moved Yukinoshita Shizuku aside, and began sweeping up the mess.

"The Order of Culture... the Emperor himself, presenting it in person..."

Yukinoshita Shizuku's voice was shaking.

"Kagami is... he's still a high schooler..."

What on earth had happened, just from watching the news, to leave her like this?

Tsushima Kagami asked as he swept.

"What's wrong?"

"You... didn't you hear?"

Yukinoshita Shizuku looked up, staring at him in disbelief.

"Hear what?"

Tsushima Kagami looked utterly confused.

Yukinoshita Shizuku took a deep breath and pointed at the television.

"The Order of Culture. The Emperor is going to award it to you."

Tsushima Kagami looked at the television, then at Yukinoshita Shizuku, then back at the television.

"Huh."

"That's it, huh?!"

Yukinoshita Shizuku's voice climbed an octave.

She finally understood, a little, how Kobayashi must have felt lately every time he called with good news.

"What else was I supposed to say?"

Tsushima Kagami scratched his head.

"Not like I can turn it down."

"You... you are just..."

Yukinoshita Shizuku stood up, walked over to Tsushima Kagami, and stared at him for three seconds.

Then she reached out and flicked him on the forehead.

It landed with a sharp, loud smack.

"Ow."

Tsushima Kagami rubbed his forehead, looking utterly innocent.

"Why'd you flick me?"

"Because you're way too calm about this."

Yukinoshita Shizuku put her hands on her hips.

"This is the Order of Culture! From the Emperor! And you're not even the slightest bit excited?!"

Only then did Tsushima Kagami remember that people of this era still held the Imperial family in a certain reverence.

Not like later on, when everyone treated them like some Konoha villager, forever finding some excuse to give the Imperial family grief — even bullying their descendants online.

Naruto really was documentary literature, in the end.

Truly, it was hard not to laugh.

"Ex... excited, sure."

He said "excited" with his mouth, but his tone stayed just as flat as ever.

"But once you're done being excited, don't you still have to get back to writing? Mr. Kobayashi's already on my case again."

Yukinoshita Shizuku looked at his innocent face and felt both exasperated and amused at once.

"You idiot."

Tsushima Kagami looked at her and laughed too.

"Yeah, I'm an idiot."

____

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