Novelist as a Vocation(24)

In contrast, writers who from the first write about heavy topics may eventually—although, obviously, this does not occur in all cases—find themselves faltering under the very weight of that material. Writers who launch their careers writing about war, for example, can approach their subject matter from various angles in various works, but at a certain point they may, to some degree or other, find themselves backed into a corner when forced to think of what to write next. Some are able to continue to grow as novelists by shifting course in midcareer. Those who are unable to accomplish this change of direction, however, may sadly find their strength waning over time.

Ernest Hemingway, without a doubt one of the most influential writers of the twentieth century, is widely considered to have produced his greatest work early in his career. I especially like his two early novels, The Sun Also Rises and A Farewell to Arms, as well as his early Nick Adams stories. These are all written with breathtaking vigor. Yet his later works, while brilliant in part, fail to realize their potential and lack the stylistic freshness of his earlier writing. In my opinion, this falloff likely stemmed from the fact that Hemingway was the type of writer who took his strength from his material. This helps explain why he led the type of life he did, moving from one war to another (the First World War, the Spanish Civil War, the Second World War), hunting big game in Africa, fishing for big fish, falling in love with bullfighting. He needed that external stimulus to write. The result was a legendary life; yet age gradually sapped him of the energy that his experiences had once provided. This is pure conjecture, but my guess is that it helps to explain why Hemingway, after winning the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1954, sank into alcoholism and then took his own life in 1961, at the very height of his fame.



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Writers who do not rely on weighty material but instead reach inside themselves to spin their tales may, by contrast, have an easier time of it. That’s because they can draw on their daily lives—the events routinely taking place around them, the scenes they witness, the people they encounter—and then freely apply their imaginations to that material to construct their own fiction. In short, they use a form of renewable energy. They feel no need to fight on the battlefield or in the bullring, or to shoot lions.

Please do not misunderstand—I am not saying that direct personal involvement in things like war, bullfights, and big-game hunting has no meaning. Of course it can be meaningful. Experiences are crucial for a writer, of whatever kind. All I’m saying is that they needn’t be of the dramatic variety to make a good novel. Even the smallest, most nondramatic encounter can generate an astonishing amount of creative power, if you do it right.

There is a saying in Japanese, “When trees sink and rocks float.” It refers to occurrences that contravene the norm; but in the world of the novel—or perhaps, more broadly, in the realm of art—such reversals take place all the time. Things the world sees as trivial can acquire weight over time, while other things broadly considered to be weighty can, quite suddenly, reveal themselves to be only hollow shells. The unending creative process cannot be perceived by the naked eye, but its power, aided by the passing of time, yields such drastic turnarounds on a regular basis.

So if you lament that you lack the material you need to write, you are giving up way too easily. If you just shift your focus a little bit and slightly alter your way of thinking, you will discover a wealth of material lying about just waiting to be picked up and used. You only have to look. In the field of human endeavor, things that seem mundane at first glance can, if you persevere, give birth to an endless array of insights. All you need to do, as I said before, is retain your healthy writerly ambition. That is the key.



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I have long held that no generation is superior or inferior to another. Although stereotypes about age groups being better or worse are common, I am convinced such criticisms don’t hold water. Generations should never be ranked that way. Of course each has its own tendencies. But there are no differences in the quantity or quality of talent. At least not enough to matter.

To take one concrete example, today’s Japanese youth are often criticized for being poorer at reading and writing kanji than their elders. (I have no idea whether this is true or not.) At the same time, however, there is little doubt that they are far better at understanding and processing computer language. This is exactly my point. Each generation has its own deficiencies as well as its own fields of expertise. It’s that simple. Correspondingly, each generation should stress its respective strengths in its creative activities. Writers should use their own language as a weapon, choosing words that come naturally to them to depict what they see as clearly as they can. There is no need for them to be intimidated by their elders; nor, on the other side of the coin, do they have any justification for feeling superior.

I took a lot of heat when I launched my career. “This can’t be called a novel,” older critics fumed. “This isn’t literature!” I found the constant attacks quite depressing, so I left Japan for a number of years and went to live abroad, where I could write what I wanted in peace, free of the constant static. Never, though, did I entertain serious misgivings about my approach or feel particularly anxious about what I was doing. “I can’t write any other way, so take it or leave it,” was my response to the critics. My writing still isn’t perfect, but I was sure even then that if I kept at it, I could turn out something better. I was convinced that I was following the correct path and that the value of my work would become apparent with the passing of time. I sure had a lot of nerve!