September had arrived in Tokyo, and though the summer heat hadn't fully faded, a hint of autumn's crispness could already be felt in the air.
Today marked the official release of Tsushima Kagami's newest work of children's literature, a short novel titled The Little Prince, illustrated with over 140 hand-drawn pictures by Sayuri.
It wasn't exactly a secret, either.
Half a month earlier, promotional posters had already gone up in bookstores across the country.
The poster showed a fox standing at the edge of a small planet, gazing up at the stars, with a line written beneath it in a childlike hand.
"Would you tame me?"
Unlike Shinchosha's usual flashy promotional slogans, this time the campaign was handled by Kodansha, and it took the opposite approach—a return to simplicity.
There were no exaggerated taglines, just the illustration and the title.
But it was precisely because Tsushima Kagami had faded from the public eye that this quiet announcement stirred up such a storm.
The last time Tsushima Kagami had appeared publicly was at the medal ceremony held at the Imperial Palace back in November.
Since then, he'd all but vanished.
No word of any new work, nothing.
So when the news of this release finally broke, everyone was stunned.
Children's literature?
The same Tsushima-sensei who had written Snow Country, No Longer Human, and The Sound of Waves?
The one known for his cold, austere, even melancholic style—had written a children's book?
The moment the news spread, it set off a firestorm across every major media outlet and social platform.
"Has Tsushima-sensei run out of ideas? Can't write serious literature anymore so he's turned to kids' books?"
"You're joking. Can children even understand his style?"
"I bet even his children's book will leave kids feeling depressed."
Skepticism flooded in, though plenty of people also chose to wait and see.
After all, the name Tsushima Kagami itself had come to mean a certain guarantee of quality.
Whatever he wrote, it wouldn't be something dashed off carelessly.
What truly pushed the book's attention beyond literary circles, though, was an unexpected group.
Ordinary parents who had little interest in serious literature but had kids at home.
"A masterwork from a literary giant, written for children—there's no harm in letting the kids read it, right?"
On release day, at the Kinokuniya bookstore.
Outside the store, a mother in her thirties pushed a stroller, a five- or six-year-old girl trailing behind her.
She answered a reporter's questions while waiting in line.
"I don't really read novels myself, but since this one's for kids, I figured I'd buy a copy and give it a try."
Beside her, a middle-aged man in a plaid shirt pushed up his glasses and smiled.
"Right? These days the children's shelves are packed with foreign fairy tales."
"Not that there's anything wrong with those, but I can't help feeling our kids should also read stories written by authors from their own country."
Some people in line nodded; others looked thoughtful.
On the second floor of the bookstore, at a window-side café table, two young women sat facing each other.
On the table between them lay a freshly purchased copy of the new book.
The cover was pale blue, showing a tiny planet with a child standing on it, their face impossible to make out.
"I thought it'd be something really heavy," said the girl with the ponytail, flipping through a couple of pages, surprise in her voice.
"Guess what? The opening's actually pretty heartwarming."
The short-haired girl across from her leaned in to look, and couldn't help laughing.
"To the grown-ups who forgive me for dedicating this book to a child."
"That doesn't sound like something Tsushima-sensei would write."
"I know, right? It's like he's a completely different person."
"Then again, every one of his works has been totally different from the last—so maybe this is just his style after all."
That same day.
The culture section of The Asahi Shimbun ran a lengthy review titled "Tsushima Kagami's 'The Little Prince': A Dialogue of the Soul Across Ages."
The article read:
[This time, Tsushima Kagami's choice of children's literature as the direction for his new work looks like a gamble at first glance, but it's actually an inevitable step in his career as a writer.
From No Longer Human to Snow Country, from Hear the Wind Sing to Kokoro, his works have always circled around one core question—how should a person live?
The Little Prince offers an answer that seems simple yet is profoundly deep: to 'tame' each other through love, and to protect what you love through responsibility.
This story isn't only for children—it's for the adults who have forgotten they were ever children themselves.]
The Yomiuri Shimbun took a more academic angle, with the headline "The 'Tsushima Kagami Shock' in Children's Literature: New Possibilities for Homegrown Children's Books."
[For a long time, Japan's children's book market has been dominated by imported works.
Grimm's Fairy Tales, Hans Christian Andersen, Peter Rabbit...
These classics are excellent, of course, but domestically produced children's literature has long lacked works able to stand shoulder to shoulder with them.
Tsushima Kagami's The Little Prince may be a beginning.
It proves something—that Japanese writers, too, can produce world-class children's literature!]
The day after the release, news programs on every major TV station covered the sensational reception of The Little Prince.
Fuji TV's morning news program specifically invited a children's literature critic for a special discussion.
The studio lights were bright; the host was a woman in her forties, immaculately made up, with a gentle tone of voice.
"As we all know, Mr. Tsushima Kagami has long been regarded as one of the leading figures of serious literature in Japan."
"His sudden turn toward children's literature this time is widely seen within the industry as a bold experiment. What's your take on this?"
The critic they'd invited, surnamed Takano, had graying hair and wore a pair of thick black-framed glasses.
He leaned forward slightly, his tone serious and earnest.
"I wouldn't call it a turn so much as a return."
"If you look at Tsushima-sensei's earlier works, there's always been an undercurrent of longing—for childhood, for innocence, for things lost."
"Take Hear the Wind Sing, for example—the passages where the protagonist returns to his hometown and recalls his childhood friends are deeply moving."
"Pinball, 1973 and A Wild Sheep Chase go even further in their pursuit of childhood."
"So I don't think Tsushima-sensei writing children's literature is some sudden whim—I think it's only natural."
"But," the host cut in.
"Some worry that since Tsushima Kagami's writing style has always been rather restrained, even obscure, can he really write something children will enjoy?"
Takano smiled and adjusted his glasses.
"That brings up an important question—what makes for good children's literature?"
"A lot of people think children's literature has to be simple, childish, and preachy."
"But in truth, the best children's literature is the kind that both adults and children can read."
"Take Andersen's fairy tales, or the Brothers Grimm..."
"On the surface, these are stories for children, but at their core, they explore emotions and questions that all of humanity shares."
"I haven't finished Tsushima-sensei's The Little Prince yet, so I won't jump to conclusions."
"But from what I've read so far, it certainly has that same potential."
After the segment aired, social media erupted immediately.
Supporters felt Takano's assessment was right on the mark, that Tsushima Kagami truly had the ability to write children's literature that could define an era.
Skeptics called it overpraise, saying it was far too hasty to rate a book so highly before even finishing it.
But for most ordinary readers, the controversy only sparked their curiosity, and they flocked to bookstores wanting to see for themselves what this Little Prince was really like.
In a house in the suburbs of Tokyo, a seven-year-old boy named Shota lay sprawled on the living room rug, flipping through the copy of The Little Prince his mother had just bought.
His mother poked her head out from the kitchen.
"So? Can you understand it?"
Shota looked up, tilting his head to think.
"Not really, but the little prince is so sad."
"Sad? Why?"
"His flower doesn't pay attention to him anymore, so he has to go to a lot of places all by himself."
Shota lowered his head again, flipping to Sayuri's illustration of the rose.
He stared at it for a long while before looking back up at his mother.
"But the flower's really pretty."
His mother blinked, surprised, then walked over and sat beside her son, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.
"How about Mommy reads it to you tonight?"
Shota nodded firmly.
His father caught the moment on camera and posted it online, with the caption:
"My seven-year-old son read The Little Prince for the first time today. He said the little prince was sad, but the rose was pretty. Maybe that's what a kid's book review looks like—direct and honest."
The casually posted forum thread was reshared tens of thousands of times.
Countless comments poured in below it, people sharing their own experiences reading The Little Prince with their children.
At the same time, the broader conversation about the state of Japanese children's literature reignited.
A culture magazine hurriedly put together a special feature titled "Do We Still Need Our Own Little Prince?"
The feature included essays from critics, authors, librarians, and educators, all grappling with the same question.
Why is homegrown children's literature so scarce in Japan?
Data showed that translated foreign works made up the majority of children's books published in Japan each year.
And of the remaining domestic works, a large portion were adaptations of anime or spin-offs from video games.
Truly original children's literature accounted for less than twenty percent of the Japanese book market.
A veteran librarian who had worked at an elementary school library for twenty years wrote in the feature:
"Most of the stories children read come from Denmark, Sweden, England, America."
"I'm not saying those stories are bad—but I have to ask, shouldn't our own children also get to read stories that grew out of our own cultural soil?"
"Stories with Japan's seasons, Japan's festivals, Japan's family relationships, the worries and joys that Japanese children actually face."
"Foreign stories simply don't have those things."
This statement was picked up and reprinted by numerous media outlets, sparking even wider public discussion.
____
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