I Am a Japanese Writer

THE QUEST FOR GOLD

WHEN I’VE READ too much at the library, I go and relax in the little park at the top of the hill. I sit down on a bench in the sun and think about the Midori book. Though I’ve been trying since the very beginning to distance myself from writing, I go right back to it every time. Why isn’t there another way of doing it? Through assertion, for example. I assert that I’ve written a good book about the multiple lives of Midori and her group (I used images from the short film to reconstruct the troubling atmosphere of those quiet days). I already have the title: A Song for Midori. I’ve said it before, once you have a good title, the rest falls into place. You just have to wait. That’s not so easy. It’s a lost art. I can’t even take a good nap, let alone empty my head. A film or a book always starts off great. You have that clean energy that beginning something gives you. But after the first quarter, it goes off track, and every time for the same reason: you’re not letting things follow their natural course. It’s not that different from planting peas: you make a hole, you put the seed in and cover it over with earth, then you water it and move on. No use waiting to see if it’ll sprout. You have to trust nature’s healthy logic. Literature doesn’t like those people who wait for it, sitting like fools in front of a typewriter. I go out for a breath of fresh air. Two guys are unloading cases of beer. A black man and a white man. I think of the south of the United States and Faulkner. And I fall out of my simple little story. Here I am back in the political world out of sheer lack of concentration. Basho’s art is one of concentration. I should have learned that lesson after all this time. The truck is spitting black smoke in front of the bar. One of the two men is naked from the waist up. The other guy is running with sweat. They’re working fast, talking the whole time, telling stories. Real pros. I write fast too. Maybe badly, but always fast. I assert that I am the fastest sprinter of my generation. People should take my word for it, because not everyone makes such audacious claims, saying he’s the best. In other trades, yes — but not in literature. Athletes don’t hesitate to say they’re out to win gold. But writers get artistically fuzzy when you mention awards. They should seek inspiration from kids — they don’t think twice about showing off their biceps. The problem is, people distrust those who move through life with an open face. And people also believe, naively, that art isn’t created in a gym. In fact, you have to train hard, which is why I’m drenched in sweat. I picture myself again in Midori’s universe. Before my closed eyes, scene by scene, the entire black-and-white film of my stay there rolls past, with Hideko, Noriko, Fumi, Tomo, Haruki and Eiko. I picture myself walking in Basho’s footsteps. The purple party at Midori’s place. Wandering through the city. The brilliant landscapes of autumn. Already the air is warmer beneath this splendid sun. Its heat spreads across my face. I could spend days on this park bench watching the young squirrels climb trees. I feel the surrender of sleep overtake me. I shiver: a cloud has passed by. Everything will disappear (what we lived and what we dreamed). A radioactive future awaits us.