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602 – The Artistic Depth of This Book Is Beyond Your Imagination
🕑 Added 2025-10-20 17:42:52 +0000 UTC“Good morning, Futami-sensei.”
At the entrance of Meirin Bookstore, the manager, Meirin Yoshihiro, immediately greeted the man who had just arrived.
He always called him “sensei”.
Not only because Futami Jiraiya was a well-known literary critic, but because his real profession was that of a professor at the University of Tokyo’s Faculty of Letters.
A real teacher, in every sense.
“Mm. Good morning, Manager.” Professor Futami gave a polite nod, neither warm nor cold and stopped there, without stepping inside.
The manager blinked, confused by the man’s behavior.
He just stood in front of the shop like an inspector, saying nothing.
But as someone who had grown up surrounded by writers and books, and who had once met the literary master Osamu Dazai in his mother’s arms at the age of two.
Meirin considered himself somewhat of an expert in dealing with literary types.
“Ah… I see,” the manager thought, nodding to himself. “Sensei must be contemplating something profound — perhaps pondering the difference between today and yesterday. Better not disturb him. I might ruin his inspiration.”
With that, Meirin gave his esteemed guest a respectful nod and returned to directing the staff, who were putting up posters and decorations.
A bookstore’s success often depends on first impressions.
If the shop looked messy from the outside, no true book lover would ever want to walk in.
So, every detail mattered — keeping the layout clean, the posters well-placed, and the atmosphere inviting.
Even when his employee Yuriko had already asked him for the hundredth time, “When will Hojou-sensei’s new novel arrive?”
The manager still answered with his usual gentle smile:
“Hojou-sensei’s new release will depend on you, Yuriko! Make sure that poster is in the most eye-catching spot! If pre-orders go beyond expectations, I’ll order more from the publisher.
You know how it is — if we pass 3,000 copies, we’ll get official promo materials. You might even get a chance to win a special gift from Hojou-sensei himself.”
A little motivation with a promise, is a tried-and-true method of management.
Pre-orders, after all, were a deeply rooted part of Japanese culture, especially in the book industry.
Bookstores weren’t just places to buy books.
They were hubs of an entire sales ecosystem, handling concert and baseball ticket reservations, CD and album sales, and even mailing the latest magazines to subscribers.
“Sigh… time really crawls when you’re waiting,” Yuriko muttered, adjusting the angle of the poster stand again.
The bookstore faced north and south, which meant sunlight had to be carefully considered.
If the poster reflected too much glare and blinded passersby, it could make them resentful — even lose interest in the book altogether.
But if it was placed in total shade, it wouldn’t catch anyone’s eye. Finding that perfect balance was an art in itself.
When no one was looking, Yuriko took the liberty of updating the “Recommended Reads” shelf near the entrance.
Quietly removing less popular titles and replacing them with books that had been trending online, complete with flashy new recommendation tags.
But the real centerpiece was the poster beside the shelf.
It was done in a realistic art style: a dimly lit room, with only a faint beam of light slipping through the window, neither quite moonlight nor daylight.
On the floor, wrapped tightly in a blanket, was a slightly overweight man, gagged, his expression frozen in terror and despair.
In the shadows stood another figure — tall, well-built, wearing a sleek black suit.
His face was hidden, but the polished cufflinks on his wrist gleamed faintly as his fingers brushed the noose hanging from the ceiling.
At the bottom of the poster, bold black letters read:
————————————————————————
[From the author of The Devotion of Suspect X, Hojou Kyousuke’s new masterpiece: The Dream and Death of Writer K. Releasing April 23 — Stay Tuned.]
————————————————————————
“Indeed… time is moving too slowly,”
A voice suddenly came from the doorway.
Futami-sensei, who had been standing there so long he could’ve passed for a display mannequin, finally spoke.
The manager nearly jumped in surprise. “Ah, Futami-sensei — what’s wrong?”
“Manager,” the professor asked, pointing to the poster, “has this book arrived yet?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid. The publisher said shipments start tomorrow. We should get our copies around noon.”
Ah, Tokyo, always the first to receive new releases.
The manager finally realized what had kept the professor at the door: he had been studying the poster.
He quickly added, “Even the poster only arrived this morning. Apparently, it was just completed yesterday.”
“…Perfect,” Futami murmured with an almost reverent sigh.
“Yes, I’m looking forward to Hojou-sensei’s new work too,” Meirin agreed cheerfully.
“I meant the poster,” Futami corrected him, shaking his head.
“This single image alone could convince me to walk into the store and pay for the book without hesitation. Publishers these days are terrifyingly good — they’ve mastered the psychology of their readers completely.”
“Huh? That’s rare… I’ve never seen you praise a novel based on marketing before,” the manager admitted, surprised.
After all, this same professor had publicly roasted young authors and idol writers on TV and in newspapers for relying on flashy, erotic covers to boost sales.
Hearing him praise a poster was nothing short of shocking.
“If you want to understand why,” Futami said with a small smirk, “read Aesthetics, The Aesthetics of the East, Principles of Aesthetics… and perhaps ten other titles I could list. After that, you might have a ten percent chance of understanding me.”
By the time Futami finished naming book after book, poor Meirin Yoshihiro’s head was spinning.
“Seriously?” he thought, exasperated. “It’s just a poster! Since when did appreciating one become an academic discipline?”
He did think the new poster for Hojou-sensei’s novel was impressive.
But hearing such high praise from one of Japan’s toughest critics made it feel like something much more profound.
Fortunately, Futami still knew how to draw the line between real life and literary criticism.
His tone wasn’t nearly as sharp as when he wrote for newspapers and magazines.
After all, he had known the bookstore owner for more than ten years.
That’s if you counted the previous generation of the Meirin Bookstore, so he spoke rather kindly as he shared his thoughts.
“You see, the only light in the entire painting shines on a chubby man who looks like a lamb waiting to be slaughtered. Don’t you feel a deep sense of despair from that?”
“Uh… am I supposed to feel despair?” the Meirin store owner asked uncertainly.
“Of course! The moon outside is bright and cold, yet he’s bound hand and foot, unable even to cry out. Isn’t that despair itself?”
“Huh… now that you say it like that, yeah, it is kind of depressing.”
The store owner nodded hard.
He dared not question it again—otherwise, he might be taken for an idiot.
“Look closer. The noose symbolizes death, yet the man in the suit—he’s elegant, refined.
His gesture is so graceful it’s as if he’s caressing a lover’s back, not preparing for murder.
It’s as though death and beauty have merged into one—a cruel sort of elegance.
Doesn’t that stir your curiosity? Don’t you want to know what he’s doing?”
Futami spoke with such passion that not only the store owner and his clerk, but even a passing salaryman stopped to listen, utterly captivated.
“Damn, you know what? You’re right, Futami-san!” The Meirin owner clapped his hands, his voice rising.
“This is actually a mystery novel. The man on the poster is the protagonist! When I attended the publisher’s briefing, Hojou himself said that this story is both a deception and an art piece—a grand performance dedicated to the world!”
“I see,” Futami nodded approvingly. “So it’s not just another book using a flashy poster to fool people. Sign me up—I want to reserve a copy.”
“And me too!” the passing salaryman quickly added.
After jotting down their preorders, the bookstore owner returned to the entrance and studied the poster for The Dream and Death of Author K.
It truly was artistic—postmodern yet steeped in traditional Japanese style…
“Hey, Meirin-san! What’re you staring at?” A voice suddenly broke his thoughts. The owner turned around to see Koyama, who ran the ramen shop nearby.
“I’m looking at this poster,” Meirin replied.
“A poster? What’s so great about a poster?” Koyama leaned closer to take a look.
At that, the bookstore owner shot him a look full of artistic and intellectual disdain before speaking slowly, as if explaining to a child:
“You see, the only light in the entire image falls on a chubby man, helpless like a lamb awaiting slaughter. Don’t you feel a deep sense of despair?”
“Uh… the whole thing looks pretty bright to me. If it weren’t, I couldn’t even see it.”
Perhaps the artistic tone was too heavy, because Koyama’s voice sounded uncertain.
Meirin sighed deeply and shook his head. That sympathetic gaze he gave Koyama—it was the same look a human gives to a monkey behind glass.
“Look again. The noose symbolizes death, yet the suited man’s movements are elegant, almost sensual, like he’s tracing a lover’s spine…”
“Wha—?” Koyama’s eyes went wide. He knew this guy too well. Just because someone owned a bookstore didn’t mean they were cultured.
If Meirin were truly scholarly, he wouldn’t have come home to inherit the family shop.
Usually, this guy just came to his ramen place to drink beer, watch baseball, and curse louder than anyone. What the hell had gotten into him today?
Still, Koyama knew better than to ask another question—lest he be downgraded from “monkey” to “brainless sea urchin.”
So he nodded along solemnly.
“You should read Aesthetics, Eastern Aesthetics, Principles of Aesthetics… maybe then you’ll have a twenty percent chance of understanding me,” Meirin said with a sigh, easily seeing through the act.
“You—!” Koyama bristled, his neck stiff with anger. “Who says I can’t understand this? You’re the one pretending to know what you’re talking about!”
He jabbed a finger at the title on the poster.
“That man touching the noose—that’s Author K, right?”
“Yes.”
“And the man tied up on the floor—that’s Author K’s dream! That’s why he’s the only one bathed in light! And now, Author K is about to strangle his own dream with his own hands! That’s what the title The Dream and Death of Author K means!”
“…Huh?”
The bookstore owner was stunned, staring wide-eyed at his crude neighbor.
‘Wait—did he actually just… interpret that correctly?’
Seeing his shocked expression, Koyama smirked and waved his hand with mock pride.
“Give me ten copies of that book.”
“It’s… not in stock yet.”
“Then put me down for a preorder. And give me one of those posters too—I’ll hang it up in my shop, free advertisement for you.”
“Uh… sure.”
Crushed completely in the realm of art, Meirin could only hand over his cherished poster with both hands.
‘I bet Koyama and Futami would have a lot to talk about,’ he thought bitterly as he watched the ramen chef walk away, poster tucked under his arm.
————————————————————————
Koyama Ramen Shop
“You’re so slow! Did you get lost buying soy sauce?” The moment Koyama returned, one of his longtime customers—stomach growling—started shouting.
“Quit whining! Do you even know what the most important ingredient in ramen is? Soy sauce! And the Koyama family only uses the best!” Koyama shot back, brushing it off as he went to the wall instead of the kitchen.
“You liar! Last time you said the noodles were the most important!” the customer barked.
“Idiot. Noodles are made by a machine now—you want me to dock its pay?”
He said it without shame.
His was the only ramen shop open at this hour, and that customer had been coming for over ten years.
Their arguments were practically tradition now.
Grabbing some tape, Koyama stuck the new poster over an old idol one, then stepped back to admire it.
‘Yeah… that’s art. Pure art. A mix of Victorian flair and pop-art energy.’
“Koyama! Stop daydreaming and cook already! I’m starving here!”
“Eat, eat, eat—is that all you ever think about? Don’t you know art is food for the soul?
You can stuff your belly all you want, but if your head’s empty, you’ll never be complete as a person!
Look—see that chubby man, the only bright spot in the picture? Don’t you feel the despair there? And then—”
The old customer stared blankly at the ramen chef rambling about art, then at the poster on the wall, wondering if the world had finally gone mad.
‘Am I… going to starve to death here?’
