Chapter One of The Turntable of Civilization recalls an unprecedented opinion advertisement placed in the Nikkei Shimbun during Japan’s 1990 total volume regulation, the shaping of a unique literary style, and reflections on truth in writing. The author asserts that words must carry the weight of the soul, just as photography can embody it. This conviction paves the way for Chapter Two, which will explore themes that can only exist in book form. With reflections on Kyoto, Hawaii, and the meaning of écriture in the 21st century, the transition underscores a lifelong journey of thought, creativity, and critique of Japan’s core institutions.

This summary covers the conclusion of Chapter 1 and the transition to Chapter 2 of the author’s book, Civilization’s Turntable. It details the author’s unprecedented action of placing a 10 million yen opinion ad in 1990, the establishment of their unique writing style, and their philosophy that true écriture (expression) is a “work of the soul.” The text also outlines the shift from online writing to a published book, presenting a deepening of 21st-century thought.

Summary of Chapter One of The Turntable of Civilization and Transition to Chapter Two
2010/12/24

Chapter One of The Turntable of Civilization recounted how the business I had once been engaged in suffered devastating effects from the drastic upheaval brought by the “total volume regulation” of April 1, 1990. Despite the harsh management conditions, I invested an unprecedented ten million yen in advertising costs to insert an opinion ad into every household subscribing to the Nikkei Shimbun in Tokyo, calling for the abolition of the super-heavy taxation system. The tax was indeed revised, just as I had hoped.

That advertisement was unprecedented. It was the very expression of what I inherited as a sort of bankara lineage—a spirit of rugged defiance. Or rather, since the total volume regulation had reduced me in practice to a pauper, it was only natural that I was the one to take such action. Those in secure elite positions rarely raise their voices; that is the way of the world.

Seven years earlier, I had similarly placed an opinion ad into the Nikkei households of Osaka Prefecture, which surely reached the very heart of the city. As already noted, it was then that my own writing style was completed. I am convinced that Chapter One of The Turntable of Civilization reached Japan’s very center.

My critique of the mass media was something that, to my knowledge, no one else had undertaken before me. Quietly but profoundly, my words reached the nation.

Thirty years after the birth of the personal computer, the world can no longer function without the Internet. Though I am no expert in PC technology, on July 16 I began writing online out of sheer necessity. I had always disliked handwriting, but the encounter with the keyboard revealed it to be my true instrument. My style was completed through this—clear characters, readable by all, whether in Japanese or in English. I place little value on calligraphy or script; what matters is whether words contain truth.

A comfortable life and refined calligraphy may have their appeal, but at the extreme they may be considered a vice of the so-called intellectual class. In the ninth century, when writing was the only medium, it was of course ideal for a man like Kūkai to be a master of calligraphy as well. But now, in the twenty-first century, only whether one possesses twenty-first century thought is of importance.

In pictorial terms, my photographs—or the masterful camerawork and framing of American cinema, such as the director and cameraman who filmed Tasha Tudor—are far superior. Though my improper typing posture often brings on bouts of tendonitis in my wrists, had I mastered all PC knowledge, I might already have opened up an unprecedented new literary genre unique to the twenty-first century.

To readers who purchase books, I promise to provide thoughts and words worthy of their price. Chapter Two will be of a nature that can only take shape in book form. Writing is not the same as speaking; it requires addressing not an unspecified crowd, but rather those who truly engage with the written word. This is because writing is the soul, just as my photographs are also my soul. It is the work of a lifetime, born of limited and singular existence.

For forty years I have seen both Japan and the world, just as one who visits Ryōan-ji, Ginkaku-ji, Shisendō, Kikoku-Tei, and Arashiyama has seen all their treasures. Thus, I now invite you to continue with Chapter Two of The Turntable of Civilization, published by MagMag.

As for photography, with Japan heading into winter, I was suddenly struck by the desire to photograph the Hawaii I so dearly loved. Why did I love Hawaii so much? Because I longed to capture, in my own way, the images that only I could take. Yet, a poor man’s life forced me to abandon the trip, as winter travel is costly. I hope instead to discover something unseen before in the winter of Kyoto. Though I do not much care for the monochrome world of winter, I sigh at the thought.

If Kyoto offers nothing new this winter, then I will spend year’s end and New Year watching fine films, or enjoying the gentle smile of Ms. Kurikinton, whose expression embodies pure goodness itself. (laughs)