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.
If we expand the discussion to include not just the Akutagawa Prize but the value of literary prizes everywhere, then we run up against a wall. That’s because there is no basis, again objectively speaking, for the true value of any prize, from the Oscars to the Nobel, except of course in those special cases where the criteria are based on a numerical assessment. If you start picking holes in how they make their decisions, there is no end to it. If you worship the award, however, there is no end to that, either.
This is what Raymond Chandler said about the Nobel Prize in one of his letters: “Do I wish to be a great writer?” he wrote. “Do I wish to win the Nobel Prize? Not if it takes much hard work. What the hell, they give the Nobel Prize to too many second-raters for me to get excited about it. Besides, I’d have to go to Sweden and dress up and make a speech. Is the Nobel Prize worth all that? Hell, no.”[1]
American novelist Nelson Algren （The Man with the Golden Arm, A Walk on the Wild Side） won the National Institute of Arts and Letters Award of Merit Medal in 1974 thanks to the support of Kurt Vonnegut, but he blew off the awards ceremony and got drunk with a woman at a bar instead. Of course, his absence was intentional. When asked “What’d you do with the medal?” Algren answered: “I dunno, I threw it away or something.”[2]