Goth (33 page)

GOTH
does have a few tricks and deductions. I believe it was these elements that allowed a light novel to receive the Honkaku Mystery Award. When I wrote
GOTH
, I was making a deliberate effort to incorporate elements of Honkaku Mysteries in it. I even believed I was trying to write a Honkaku Mystery (but only at first). I decided to do so because I wanted light novel readers to understand what was so interesting about mysteries.

When I was a teenager, a friend of mine, K-san, brought a book called
Slayers
to my house. That was when I began reading voraciously. Before that time, I had read fewer than ten novels a year; but after
Slayers
, I read every light novel I could get my hands on. I won’t attempt to define the term “light novel” here, but they tend to have manga-style covers and illustrations as a big selling point. I’m not at all sure that the term had been created at the time, but
Slayers
is what we would call a light novel. I also read
Zanyaruma no Kensi
,
Sword World
, and
Tamago no Ouji: Kairuroddo no Kunan
. I would go to the store almost every day and pour over Sneaker Bunko’s green spines or Fujimi Fantasy Bunko’s yellow or blue spines. For five years at technical school, I had no friends, but there was a classmate with whom I could talk about light novels once every three days or so, which was one of the few saving graces.

Then one day I was reading a gaming magazine, and I found a column saying, basically, that light novels weren’t considered proper books, but trashy things that only a child would read. Oh. I’d had no idea, but the world of publishing frowned on light novels. This came as quite a shock. I was sixteen, though, and no matter how furious I was at the lack of respect given to light novels, there was nothing I could do to change that. And it made little difference to my life what the world thought of them. Shortly after that, I fell in love with mysteries and read a bunch of mystery novels. Light novels and mystery novels are the two pillars of my reading experience.

One day, I looked at the word processor in my room and had an idea. “I should practice typing while I still have time. But if I’m doing that, I might as well write words that mean something … like a novel. It would be nice if I could make a living writing novels or manga. If I write constantly, I might be able to write something good by the time I’m thirty.” And a few twists and turns later, I was a published writer. Once I began writing professionally, something unexpected happened: I was constantly running up against the problem of how light novels were looked down upon, something I had assumed would never actually affect my life. If I were to describe all the light novel discrimination I’ve been a victim of, this would become an extremely brutal essay, so I shall not.

Anyway. As I read both light novels and mysteries in college for some reason, I joined the sci-fi club. There I made my first friends in five years. When we talked about books, I discovered that they all read nothing but light novels. I was somewhat horrified to discover that even though they were remarkably intelligent, well educated, articulate, and confident of their passion for books, they only read light novels. But they were a future I might have been part of. There must be plenty of people in Japan who are surrounded by people like them, who read only light novels and never realize there are many other kinds of books in the store.

Right! I would write a mystery light novel! Then people who had read only light novels would be exposed to the joys of mysteries and break out of their reading niche! With that in mind, I began writing
GOTH
.

†

Then, that fateful day …

“A phone call arrived at the editorial desk informing us that you have won the Honkaku Mystery Award … Does that ring a bell?” asked my editor, A-san. Her voice, emerging from my cell phone, sounded rather perplexed. Of course. She had gone to work like always and was doing her job as usual, when suddenly the phone rang and she’d been informed that a book she’d edited had won an award; most people would assume it was a practical joke.

At the time, I was in Shibuya Station. “Oh … now that you mention it, I did get a letter about that.”

“They appear to be looking for you. Come to Kadokawa Shoten at once.”

As I later learned, what I did that day was rather an unusual course of action for a prize candidate to take on the day the winner was announced. Most people apparently sit around with their editors, swallowing nervously and jumping every time the phone rings, thinking, “The results are in!” only to have it be a wrong number and find themselves asked to deliver tendon and soba.

I went to Kadokawa Shoten, up to the floor that housed the anime and manga division, which oversees Sneaker Bunko, and all the editors bowed to me, congratulating me on my award. Award? Uh … huh? While I was still reeling, I was thrown into a taxi and driven away.

We got out of the taxi in front of a strange building and rode the elevator up, and a huge crowd of people turned toward me at once. I wanted to run away. I was led along helplessly to a sort of conference room packed with people and TV cameras, and I was forced to stand in front of them. A microphone was placed before me, and someone asked me how I felt.

Award? Uh … huh? My head was still spinning, but I was convinced that if Tokyo people knew they had me rattled, I would be forced to put my stamp on a number of dubious documents, be introduced to dubious friends, and be promised profits that were unlikely to materialize, so I pretended to be calm and answered. There were loads of people with cameras pointed at me, with flashes going off like strobe lights, and I felt like a criminal being dragged out of a patrol car. I wanted to bow my head, tears in my eyes, apologize, and promise not to do it again. Nevertheless, I managed to survive the post-award interview and was able to calm down enough to look around me—but the more I looked, the more famous mystery novelists I saw in the crowd. Yikes! Time to go! But before I could run, people started handing me business cards, and I had to make polite conversations. One of the cards handed to me said Hideo Uyama, which terrified me.

“Th-this is
the
Uyama-san … !”

I stared in awe at the man who’d handed me the card, but before I managed to recover enough to speak, I was swallowed up by the crowd again. Eventually I escaped, went home, and lay in bed trembling, still in a state of shock.

And that is basically all I have to say about the day
GOTH
won the Honkaku Mystery Award; however, I think Uyama-san deserves a little more explanation. Uyama-san is the famous Kodansha editor who created the Shin Honkaku Mystery boom, and without him, there would have been far fewer Honkaku mysteries, I never would have read any mysteries of quality, and
GOTH
never would have been written. There are few opportunities in life to meet with people who have changed history, which is why I was so terrified when he gave me his card.

†

Several years have passed since that chaotic day. During that time, I’ve been rewriting a half-written novel, throwing it all away and rethinking it from the beginning—and in between, writing the occasional short story. I’ve also been to Turkey, played Dragon Quest 8, made a movie, gone to Okinawa with a few other writers, had stories turned into movies, written a new short story called “My Intelligent Underwear,” been given hand cream as a present because my hands were in poor condition, spilled beer and been handed a pen that removes stains, and all kinds of other things.

Probably the biggest change has been the money I now have due to the success of
GOTH
. Because of that, I’m able to work less and spend more time enjoying myself.

I spent my teenage years writing stories and attending class, and I almost never did anything for fun. I’ve almost never been able to do things simply because I wanted to. And what I want to do involves making movies and games. I became a novelist despite wanting to do those things instead.

So I went and bought a video camera, and I’ve begun making movies. I’d helped with a friend’s film in college, but I thought it was time I directed my own. I’ve made two films now, but the results were much too horrible to show anyone else. I have a newfound respect for people who are good at this. I’ve been asked to write several screenplays. If asked which I like better, novels or movies, the answer is clearly movies, so of course I accepted immediately with all the passion of a drooling dog. I would be perfectly happy to change careers and focus entirely on movies, but I don’t know if that’s possible.

When I tell people I’m making movies, people often seem to think I would be able to get funding from somewhere. Good heavens, no. Certainly I’ve heard offers, but “funding” essentially means borrowing money from people to make a movie, and that is far too much responsibility. The movies I make cost only a few hundred thousand yen, so I can readily afford them without wasting anyone else’s money. They usually involve me, the camera, and the two actors, with no lighting or sound, and are absolutely unprofessional.

So, at the moment, I’m learning how to direct and continuing to write. If I were to spend ten or twenty years to make twenty-odd movies, would I be able to make something satisfactory? This is not the sort of luxurious challenge most of us are afforded. Everyone I know who’s over thirty and calls himself a director is always working horrible day jobs while filming and dreaming of someday working for a major studio. I have no need to work a horrible day job. And that is because of my publishers and readers. And I owe a debt of gratitude to
GOTH
for allowing me to begin making my own movies. Thank you very much. I began writing stories during the summer when I was sixteen. This year I am twenty-six, so we have been together ten years.

—Otsuichi

June 2005

0

The prohibition of graven images in the Old Testament is more accurately a prohibition against the worship of idols. To avoid this criticism, those who champion the use of icons draw a line between “worship” and “veneration.”

Icon venerators declare that icons are not used with the intent to worship the image itself, but rather to call to mind that which the image expresses. The thinking is this: Though the image is to be treated with respect, this respect does not make it the object of worship. In discussion, proponents frequently liken the icon to the image of a loved one. A drawing or a photo of a loved one is not the actual loved one, but the person enduring a separation from their beloved cherishes the image. The assertion is that the sacred icon similarly causes the bearer to recall the existence of God or the saint—or the vestiges thereof—through the image.

1

When I look at photographs for work, I analyze the various bits of information shown in them. I think about composition, shadows, the lens, the way in which these elements are combined, the chemical reaction that occurs, and the deeper impression the photo makes on the viewer. I can’t help but be conscious of the idea of the “symbol.”

The act of taking a photo is one of positioning a symbol into a square frame or one of finding it there. The person with the camera may press the shutter with some vague intention, but in most cases, what they capture is nothing more than a scene of high entropy. Given all the information scattered about in the image, viewers don’t know where to rest their eyes. Thus, the photographer makes sure to control the many disparate elements. They make the illumination brighter or the shadows darker, or they fiddle with the lens and the aperture to blur the background, in line with their own style. Cutting out and framing a piece of the natural world in this way creates all sorts of symbols, symbols which helpfully and clearly tell the viewer what kind of photo they are looking at.

I imagine that words are symbols. As long as a person is alive, they have no choice but to use words to infer the intentions of others. And when a person is producing some kind of work, they have no choice but to rely on these same words.

There is something that must not be forgotten: the fact that the symbol itself has no intrinsic meaning. It is not the circle or the square that moves people. These objects are only symbols and have no greater meaning in and of themselves. To have faith in the object is the same as worshipping the image.