In Arashiyama, a casual remark—“I bought your book and read it”—revived a voice the author thought had been silenced by slander and sabotage. This essay reflects on writing, loss, and the quiet joy of knowing one’s words truly reached a reader.

2016-02-17

Yesterday the weather was fine, so I headed with a friend to Arashiyama, which is essentially my own garden.
We arrived around lunchtime, so we went straight to a restaurant I had mentioned before, one that serves excellent spaghetti and bread.
That day, I ordered a large portion of spaghetti.

While waiting, my friend read a special issue of a magazine introducing Kyoto that was placed in the restaurant, and I read the monthly magazine Seiron that I had been reading in the car.
As always, the food was excellent, and fully satisfied, we went to the register.

The other day, I had been surprised to learn that this restaurant had been started by local people with the aim of enabling people with physical disabilities to live exactly the same lives as able-bodied people.
At the time, I was checking the English chapter I had written about the restaurant, so I showed it to them as it was.
The woman there could properly understand English.
I thought to myself, “As expected of Kyoto.”

Yesterday, when I stood at the register, I was surprised.
“I’ve bought your book and am reading it,” she said.

I had been feeling completely satisfied by the delicious meal, so for a moment I felt like a pigeon struck by a bean pellet.
But I quickly understood the situation, and words of heartfelt thanks came out naturally.

What a pleasant beginning to a day in Arashiyama.

At the same time, I remembered the calamity that my book had suffered, something I had long forgotten.
As readers may know, both I and the two publishers who offered contracts as soon as I appeared were confident that The Turntable of Civilization would sell a certain number of copies without fail.

However, a man who committed unbelievable wrongdoing against my company, after I had fallen seriously ill and was hospitalized, waited until the publication was announced—six months later, on December 1—and as soon as we asked readers to please purchase the book, this villain, who ran an internet company with a website production division, flooded the internet.

When searching for the book’s title and my pen name, he created blogs under nearly twenty different handles, spreading across pages one through ten of search results, filling them with content too vile to look at and too vile to read—words of stupidity, vulgarity, and pure malice—burying pages related to my book and to me.

After my discharge from the hospital, I went to see a lawyer who disliked dealing with internet cases.
But the moment he saw it, he said, “This is terrible,” and listed more than four charges—obstruction of business, false accusation, defamation—and immediately sent me to the nearest police station to file a criminal complaint.

It took a year and a half for the case to reach the public prosecutor’s office.
At the time, awareness of internet crimes was still very low, and it was not possible to send the offender to prison.

The publisher, myself, and my book were deeply wounded.
Since there was nothing we could do except forget, I had forgotten.

For the first time, I felt as if I had heard the voice of my book.

Needless to say, I thanked that woman from the bottom of my heart.

For the sake of my book, and for the sake of my words, I was truly happy.