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.
* * *
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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.