First of all, let me briefly introduce myself.
I'm the editor-in-chief of an art and culture magazine called "Shincho". The magazine was launched in 1904, the year of the Russo-Japanese War, so it’s now 103 years old. It is in fact said to be the oldest existing commercial literary magazine in the world (however "Shincho" had to skip several issues during WWII, and one after the Great Hanshin Earthquake). I'm working at two different places - my company’s office in Kagurazaka, and an old house in a harbor town on the Miura Peninsula. While I work together with my fellow editors using computers, printers, phone and other tools/resources at the former, the latter is equipped with little more than a laptop computer that is not even connected to the Internet. I'm spending there about 100 days (nights) a year.
October 3 (Wed)
In the afternoon I enter a recording studio in Tsukiji. After witnessing about three hours of an exciting secret recording, I crack a bottle at a nearby pub. In the evening I stagger back to my workplace in Kagurazaka, and head straight for the sofa in he corner to take a nap. (That’s one of my bad habits!) I even got myself a cashmere blanket in order to prevent getting chilled while asleep. After getting back on my feet, I run through entries for the Kawabata Yasunari Literature Prize. Among them is one wonderfully eerie piece by a female writer. After sending out a number of emails to all the candidate authors, I return home late at night, and watch a great TV program on artist Ohtake Shinro (who is also one of our regular contributors) that I videotaped. When hitting the Send button to send him my greetings by email, I notice that dawn is already breaking.
October 4 (Thu)
I'm being interviewed by someone from Jiji Press about the transformations of literature and specialized publications. I did an interview on the same topic for Asahi Shimbun a while ago, where I offered the subjunctive theory that, "Against the backdrop of the dramatic changes in our highly-networked, post-modern information society, and the transformations they cause in the human mind, it’s only natural that literature transforms as well." The same goes of course also for art, music, cinema and theatre. After the interview I catch the last train that takes me to my house on the seashore. Accompanied by myriad insects metallic techno chorus, I get some writing done.
October 5 (Fri)
I attend the Kobayashi Hideo Award ceremony at Hotel Okura. At the hotel I meet Mr. A., and seize the occasion to approach him again with a request for a project combining literature and science. There is also Mr. B., with whom I check the status of a new regular column on a certain peculiar Marxist individual. I asked Mr. C. if he could write that for us, and when he explained, "You see, that other column took ten years to complete, so this one is going to take even longer," I replied, "OK, please take your time!" It’s a huge project that discusses the Japanese people’s relationship to literature from its very foundation. A further article I assign to Mr. D., before heading for another hotel in central Tokyo. I meet novelist E., my first conversation with whom I had when I was a university student. If I write things down like this, it probably sounds as if everything is going smoothly, but requesting people to write articles doesn't necessarily mean that they really write them. A request is nothing more than a request, and the answers that I get don't mean anything more than, "I heard your request." Later in the evening I visit a bar in Shinjuku, the walls of which are decorated with some of Ohtake Shinro’s works. I meet artist F., and saying hello is all I remember doing before falling asleep at the counter. When I wake up I realize that I'm the last guest, but only leave after listening to some Frank Zappa and Holger Czukay tunes at a fairly high volume in the early morning hours.
October 6 (Sat)
At my seaside workplace.
In the late afternoon I board the train that takes me to my house on the coast in about 90 minutes. On the train I browse through some manuscripts. What I read is written in Japanese, but the strangely fascinating novel portrays a world that doesn't seem to have much to do with the real Japan. I ask myself what kind of "Japan" inspires such writings…On my way from the station to my house I notice from my scooter that the sunset today is extraordinarily beautiful, so I take a little side trip and spend a while sitting on the beach and gazing absent-mindedly at the setting sun. From there I drop by at the "Maruichi" fish shop and have dinner at their restaurant. Every fish they prepare here was just caught at the harbor, and tastes as good as only fresh fish can. Maruichi is one of the world’s best fish restaurants, and I guess I will be writing about the place in this "diary" from time to time. After dinner I have a beer at a bathhouse, do some work on a conversation article on my tiny laptop, and go to bed before daybreak.