I am a writer in Tokyo

Editor-in-Chief Kashiwagi and Oshima had discussed an issue before, and even the entire literary world was discussing an issue.

This problem has existed since ancient times and has not even been solved.

“Words always inspire those who have words in their lives, but the content always belongs to those who do not have words in their lives.”

Some people feel that this is not a question but a point of view, a general and objective statement.

The division of classes has been determined since primitive times. Even the unequal distribution of resources in this world has determined the inevitability of the division of social classes. Therefore, it is a fantasy to want to use words to inspire those people whose lives are filled with the daily necessities of life.

He raised a fatal question: "If all people, of course, 'all people' here naturally includes those whose lives are filled with firewood, rice, oil and salt and those who are busy all day long for their livelihood, if they all talk about dreams and the future, then who will go to the fields to produce food?
Where should the focus of literature be then? Without those people who are always on the go, without the farmers who work hard in the fields, without those homeless people under the bridges who the wind doesn’t want to approach, what form will literature take?

Then there would be no literature, and even no characters. Characters would become the general equivalent they used to calculate the daily necessities of life. They were no different from the currency we use today. They were full of the smell of copper and all kinds of dirty intrigues.

Is literature still what we want to pursue at this time? To put it in a very selfish way, will we still be regarded as writers at this time? "

When these words were spoken, everyone fell silent, their eyes filled with an indescribable sense of horror.

This horror comes from deep in the bone marrow, just like when Xiaoyuan Yishu began to dissect human nature in front of everyone, the bloody scene was shocking.

Everyone present began to ask themselves, are they really like this? Is the literary value they pursued just to fill their stomachs? So they began to review their past like a revolving lantern, and they were surprised to find that it seemed to be like this.

The starting point of writing an article may be the macroscopic saint-like starting point that occupies a small part. The most real thing is that in a place where no one is around, where the light cannot reach, I began to show that greedy smile and counted my royalties carefully. In the dark night, it was so quiet that even the wind dared not move, but the sound of banknotes rubbing against each other could be heard.

The question of whether human nature is light or dark is like a thousand-layer nesting doll. If one day it is placed on the table and the layer of disguise is punctured, the darkness under the table will quickly disguise itself and be placed in front of everyone in a bright and beautiful manner.

The person who dared to expose the disguise of literature in front of a group of writers was a brave man, but after his heroic act, this issue was still raised, and in some occasions without his participation, everything that happened before seemed to be forgotten.

A group of writers once again began to discuss the possibility of universal literature at a meeting, just like the group of exterminated cockroaches gathering together again.

Light has a back side. The brighter it is, the darker it is. Putting aside the philosophical statements about some relatively unified contradictions, we should think about what is behind this matter and what we can learn from it.

The realization that Editor-in-Chief Kashiwagi came to was that he learned to accept.

"Life is nothing more than accepting one unacceptable thing after another, from the initial reluctance and outrage to the numbness and resignation later. They call this growth, and call those who resist fools."

Under the sunshine, Editor-in-Chief Kashiwagi smiled somewhat bleakly. He is a very ambitious man, but now he is also learning to accept it gradually.

However, Editor-in-Chief Kashiwagi has always tried to break this cruel law of history.

"That's a sociological matter. People who engage in literature need to be more romantic and unrealistic." This is Oshima's favorite sentence, which he carved on his desk with a knife.

Of course, he paid for this with the compensation of two desks and a public self-criticism speech.

Maybe Oshima Kazuya was just very passionate about this. When he saw Boss Ito say these words unconsciously, he felt that Editor-in-Chief Kashiwagi had succeeded, well... it should be Koin Kazuki who had succeeded.

Boss Ito was so frightened that his body shuddered violently. Facing Oshima Kazuya's passionate gaze, he took several steps back, but found that he had nowhere to retreat.

He had heard of a type of person who might not be normal. Although they all liked holes, they liked men's holes...

It is unlikely for literati, after all, they are different from ordinary people.

Boss Ito comforted himself like this, but then he thought of something else. It seemed that it was precisely because he was different from ordinary people that he was more likely to...

Before Boss Ito could finish his wild thoughts, he saw that Oshima Kazuya did not rush to him as he had imagined, but rushed to Koma.

"Isn't this just?"

At this time, Mr. Oshima was as happy as a three-year-old child. He could imagine what the book "The Passion" would be like after it was published. This would definitely be a phenomenal achievement.

His excitement was like the rain outside, smashing down on everything exposed in the world.

Teacher Oshima imagined what kind of person he was. The world was dim, and there was a torch in the center, but the fire was dying.

So he turned into a moth, took off in the long night, and resolutely flew towards the flame.

"But you...you are just a moth, and you can't make the fire burn more intensely." Ju suddenly interrupted Teacher Oshima's reverie.

Mr. Oshima, who was pulled back to the real world, was a little dissatisfied with his dream being shattered so quickly. He fought back: "But no matter what, didn't the fire last for a while? And my ashes will make the soil more fertile."

"Your organic matter is burned, and theoretically it's just a bunch of particles full of gaps, which can't bring much nutrition."

Oshima Kazuya's smile froze in the air, his body stiffened, and he swore that if killing was not against the law, he might consider directly strangling the future of Japanese literature. (End of this chapter)