Novelist as a Vocation(12)

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.



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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.



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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).

If winning the Akutagawa Prize meant that the war in Iraq might not have happened or something of that sort, I’m sure I would feel terrible. Since that’s not the case, however, why on earth would anyone bother to write a book on the topic? I just can’t get my head around it. This “controversy” is too trivial to be called a tempest in a teapot—it’s more like a tiny dust devil.

At the risk of causing offense, I should state the obvious: the Akutagawa Prize is just another literary award presided over by the Bungei Shunju publishing house. Its purpose may not be strictly commercial, but it would be folly to pretend that Bungei Shunju’s bottom line is not involved.

Be that as it may, as someone who has been a novelist for a long time, it is my experience that a new writer whose work deserves close attention comes along only once every five years or so. Maybe once every three years, if we relax our standards. The Akutagawa Prize, on the other hand, is handed out twice a year, which means its quality tends to be watered down. Though I have no argument with that (prizes can be seen as congratulatory gifts aimed at encouraging new writers, providing a entry point for more rookies), it does make me wonder about the circus atmosphere the media creates each time around. Looked at objectively, it all seems out of proportion.