July 9, 2026
Today, I searched for “Haruki Murakami” within Ameba.
Even I was surprised.
The search results reached 298 entries, and my criticism of Haruki Murakami continued endlessly all the way to the final, thirtieth page.
Moreover, the date of the earliest critical essay I could confirm was May 8, 2011.
In other words, from at least 2011 to 2026, over a period of fifteen years, I have continued to offer essential criticism of the existence known as Haruki Murakami, the Japanese literary space surrounding him, the Asahi Shimbun-like pseudo-moralism, and the mistaken intellect of postwar Japan.
That I have developed, over many years, the strictest and most essential criticism of Haruki Murakami in the world is clear simply by searching for “Haruki Murakami” within Ameba.
The search results reach 298 entries, continuing like a horizon through articles from 2019, 2020, 2022, and 2026.
Looking at this fact, one can see that my observation regarding his latest work — namely, the view that it may have received some kind of inspiration from my essays and, at the same time, may have been written as a form of revenge against me — is by no means absurd.
At the very least, in the discourse surrounding Haruki Murakami, it is undeniable that my criticism has existed with a quantity and quality that cannot be ignored.
This is not mere literary criticism.
It is a record of civilizational criticism that, through the figure of one writer named Haruki Murakami, has questioned the literary space of postwar Japan, Asahi Shimbun-like pseudo-moralism, the masochistic view of history, the Nanjing issue, the theory of perpetual apology, anti-Japanese propaganda by China and South Korea, the political nature of the United Nations and UNESCO, and the ideological end of postwar intellectuals.
I have not criticized Haruki Murakami because he sells well.
Nor have I criticized him because he is famous.
I have criticized him because he had become a symbolic figure of the mistaken intellect of postwar Japan, Asahi Shimbun-like false moralism, childish historical awareness, and a Japanese literary space that had lost sight of the genuine.
The search results on the final, thirtieth page prove this.
This is not a passing thought of mine.
Nor is it a momentary emotion.
It is the accumulation of consistent criticism over fifteen years.
From now on, I will republish, one by one, the major essays criticizing Haruki Murakami that appear in these search results.
By reading them, readers will come to know how early, how deeply, and how essentially my criticism struck at the heart of the matter.
At the same time, they will also come to know how impoverished and how dangerous the Japanese media, literary criticism, and Asahi Shimbun-like discourse space that excessively elevated Haruki Murakami have been.
Artists are precious because they shine light on hidden truths and concealed truths, and give them expression.
In that sense, what I have continued to question is not the problem of one writer named Haruki Murakami.
Who is the person who speaks the truth?
What is art?
What is intellect?
What is civilization?
These are the fundamental questions.
I attach here, as evidence, the screenshot of the final, thirtieth page.
Fifteen years of criticism of Haruki Murakami begins again from here.