Naturally there are people in the world (only a handful, for sure) blessed with enormous talent that,
from beginning to end, doesn’t fade, and whose works are always of the highest quality. These
fortunate few have a water vein that never dries up, no matter how much they tap into it. For literature,
this is something to be thankful for. It’s hard to imagine the history of literature without such figures as
Shakespeare, Balzac, and Dickens. But the giants are, in the end, giants—exceptional, legendary figures.
The remaining majority of writers who can’t reach such heights (including me, of course) have to
supplement what’s missing from their store of talent through whatever means they can. Otherwise it’s
impossible for them to keep on writing novels of any value. The methods and directions a writer takes
in order to supplement himself becomes part of that writer’s individuality, what makes him special.
Most of what I know about writing I’ve learned through running every day. These are practical,
physical lessons. How much can I push myself? How much rest is appropriate—and how much is too
much? How far can I take something and still keep it decent and consistent? When does it become narrow-
minded and inflexible? How much should I be aware of the world outside, and how much should I
focus on my inner world? To what extent should I be confident in my abilities, and when should I
start doubting myself? I know that if I hadn’t become a long-distance runner when I became a novelist, my
work would have been vastly different. How different? Hard to say. But something would have definitely
been different.
In any event, I’m happy I haven’t stopped running all these years. The reason is, I like the novels
I’ve written. And I’m really looking forward to seeing what kind of novel I’ll produce next. Since I’m
a writer with limits—an imperfect person living an imperfect, limited life—the fact that I can still
feel this way is a real accomplishment. Calling it a miracle might be an exaggeration, but I really do
feel this way. And if running every day helps me accomplish this, then I’m very grateful to running.
People sometimes sneer at those who run every day, claiming they’ll go to any length to live longer.
But I don’t think that’s the reason most people run. Most runners run not because they want to live
longer, but because they want to live life to the fullest. If you’re going to while away the years, it’s far
better to live them with clear goals and fully alive than in a fog, and I believe running helps you do
that. Exerting yourself to the fullest within your individual limits: that’s the essence of running, and a
metaphor for life—and for me, for writing as well. I believe many runners would agree.
I’m going to a gym near my place in Tokyo to get a massage. What the trainer does is less a massage
than a routine to help me stretch muscles I can’t stretch well alone. All my hard training has made
them stiff, and if I don’t get this kind of massage my body might fall apart right before the race. It’s
important to push your body to its limits, but exceed those and the whole thing’s a waste.
The trainer who massages me is a young woman, but she’s strong. Her massage is very—or maybe I
should say extremely—painful. After a half-hour massage, my clothes, down to my underwear, are
soaked. The trainer is always amazed at my condition. “You really let your muscles get too tight,” she
says. “They’re ready to cramp up. Most people would have had cramps long ago. I’m really surprised
you can live like this.”