Between Tama and the 23rd Ward: A Creative Journey

Hiroshi Nobue, a literary writer and producer of the globally recognized novelist Haruki Murakami’s radio show, Murakami RADIO on TOKYO FM, shares his reflections on how the outskirts of Tokyo—areas like Tama—provide fertile ground for literature, philosophy, and the roots of creativity. TOKYO FM is a leading Japanese radio station and the flagship of the Japan FM Network (JFN), known for its diverse cultural programming.

－－Living in Higashi-Koganei – Have you lived there all of your life?

Hiroshi Nobue (HN): I was born in Kichijoji, but Higashi-Koganei is where my mother’s family had its roots. They owned land there and ran a flower shop in Kichijoji from the Taisho era (1912-1926), selling flowers picked from their fields in Higashi-Koganei alongside those bought at market. The area around our home was always alive with seasonal blooms.

－－This year marks the 60th anniversary of Higashi-Koganei Station. What are your memories from that time?

HN: The Higashi-Koganei Station was built when I was in the first grade. I remember my father saying to my mother, “Finally, we have our own station close by.” What makes the station special is that it wasn’t built by Japan’s national railway system, or that it is a private railway network, but rather it was built through the dedicated efforts of local residents. Their determination to establish the station reflects just how deeply they care for their community.

－－It’s unusual for someone in your profession to live in Tama. What has kept you to continue to commute from Higashi-Koganei?

HN: It is unusual, isn’t it? The reason is simple: “I don’t want to lose the ability to travel.” I’ve heard that Yuming (Yumi Matsutoya), one of Japan’s most famous singers, used to write her lyrics on the Chuo Line, commuting from Hachioji to the city. There’s something inspiring about a daily journey. Seated on the train, reading a book, or taking in the view of Mount Fuji—these moments let you breathe. It’s like starting a little journey every day with your feet on the ground. 

Living in the city center—areas like Kasumigaseki, Akasaka, or Roppongi—can burn you out. These bustling districts, known for their business hubs and nightlife, often feel exhausting and lack a sense of home compared to quieter neighborhoods like those in Tama. My office is in Akasaka, so I spend much of my time in the thick of it. That’s why, even in the city, I keep a bike to explore quieter, less crowded areas whenever I need a break.

－－Is commuting a journey?

HN: Absolutely. Traveling from Tama to the city on the Chuo Line, I like to watch the changing landscapes—Mount Fuji in the distance, the greenery passing by—this helps enrich everyday life.

Tama itself has parks like Koganei and Musashino, great for walks. Further out, places like Tachikawa and Kunitachi offer even more spaces to unwind. That’s the charm of the suburbs: open parks where you can breathe, chat with others, or just sit with a cup of coffee.

－－Suburbs in the heart of the city?

HN: The Imperial Palace gardens are one such example. Suburbs aren’t just vacant spaces—they are important and vital areas of emptiness that let the city breathe and thrive. There’s an idea that the existence of such “hollow centers” allows the surrounding areas to flourish.

Tama That Hold Something Truly Brilliant

－－Does travel refine your awareness?

HN: Definitely. Vertical cities like modern Shibuya, with its towering buildings, lack horizontal sprawl and places to walk freely. Without such expansive areas, you miss out on the joy of strolling. I can’t imagine a life confined to moving only up and down within high-rises. Expansive movement, physically and mentally, is what sharpens perception.

－－What is the dynamic of living between Tama and the 23 wards?

HN: Moving between Tama and the city creates different and wonderful moments of discovery. The fresh scent of the wind, the feeling of seasonal change, even something as mundane as tire tracks left in the snow—all these details make daily life richer.

－－What makes Tama special?

HN: There’s a theory that the cutting edge lies on the fringes of the center, and perhaps Tama exemplifies this even more. By contrast, the city center often feels ordinary and conventional. The suburbs, though, tend to have higher crime rates. Still, it’s on the outskirts where you find remarkable culture and sophistication. It’s the lesser-known aspects of these areas that hold something truly brilliant.

In Mitaka, there’s the International Christian University (ICU); in Koganei, Tokyo University of Agriculture and Technology and Hosei University; and in Kunitachi, Hitotsubashi University. Each of these institutions houses libraries filled with cutting-edge knowledge. ICU, for instance, is nestled in a dense forest, sparking curiosity about what might be happening there—an inspiration for intellectual exploration. 

Compare that to urban universities don’t evoke the same sense of intrigue. It’s truly in the suburbs where you find a unique blend of distance, unexpected encounters, innovation, and even a hint of edginess.

－－What about Okutama?

HN: Places like Akiruno, home to the draft of the Itsukaichi Constitution, have a legacy of intellectual thought. Historically, these areas attracted progressive thinkers who gathered to exchange ideas. I believe living on the fringes fosters deeper thought—it’s easier to reflect and create when you’re away from the center’s hustle. When it comes to nurturing intellect, perhaps being on the outskirts allows for deeper thinking.

Office workers are intellectuals in their own right—they commute by train, reading newspapers or books, gradually sharpening their intellectual edge. As the thinker and anthropologist Shinichi Nakazawa says, the Chuo Line is the backbone of Japan.

－－Chuo Line and its pub culture—any tips for finding great places?

HN: Along the Chuo Line, when land prices rise and large capital-backed stores dominate, the unique character of a neighborhood fades, making it less interesting. I believe the shops along the Chuo Line are those where the local community creates its own rules. A neighborhood with great restaurants often also has good bookstores.

Like Mitaka, Kokubunji, Kunitachi—they still have independent Izakaya and pubs run by the younger generation with fresh ideas. These places are vibrant, full of personality, and worth revisiting.

－－What makes a place worth returning to?

HN: It’s about smile and warmth. Good places reveal their quality in just a greeting, like the simple “Irasshaimase” (Welcome). Much like when you buy ingredients at a fish market or famers market—offering goods at street level is the essence of it all.

Places where even a small interaction or bit of communication takes place often turn out to have the best food. Of course, there are times when you pick the wrong place, but it’s those little interactions—like chef saying, “We’ve got something great today!”—that make all the difference. Eating is a form of communication, after all. I heard that humans are the only species among all living beings who enjoy both eating and conversing at the same time—what a privilege that is, isn’t it?

－－How do you approach writing?

HN: It starts with acknowledging your own emptiness. Creation begins by first recognizing how empty you are. It’s when you feel like there’s nothing there that ideas start to emerge. Like tossing a stone into a clear and still lake creates water ripples, I want to expand those ripples within myself by meeting new people and taking in exciting experiences.

This sense of emptiness is similar to the existence of the Imperial Palace or the suburbs I mentioned earlier. These serene, seemingly blank spaces are full of potential. In a way, I might be the quintessential suburban type: starting from nothing, from emptiness, from a blank page, is where stories begin.

－－What does “Ma” (the space or pause) mean in creation?

HN: Japanese literature places great importance on “ma,” the concept of intervals or spaces. It’s worth being conscious of how much information is packed into those spaces. If you think of a scale from 1 to 10, you stop at 3 and leave the other 7 unsaid. By stripping things down, you create room for possibilities. It allows the reader to think about the spaces in between, or even to dream. Perhaps this is a suburban idea. In Tokyo’s city center, there’s no room for such spaces. But “ma” could be described as the space where humans think, where they sense a story.

And then there’s ambiguity. In the opening of Yasunari Kawabata’s novel Snow Country, the line “The train came out of the long tunnel” leaves the narrator unidentified. This ambiguity is also vital to storytelling.

Note: The ambiguity to immerse readers in a richly layered world, where the lack of clarity serves not as a limitation but as an invitation to explore deeper emotional and philosophical truths.

－－What’s the relationship between travel and creativity?

HN: Traveling to meet someone is incredibly important. During the pandemic, online meetings were convenient, but everyone agreed that without physical discussions and casual chit-chat, it became harder to spark creativity.

What matters more than convenience is the so-called “waste” or inefficiency. For example, on the way home from watching a movie, there are moments when thoughts arise. Heading out to a theater, sitting in the dark, and experiencing the film—that kind of sensory engagement is essential. Travel stimulates the human spirit in unexpected ways.

－－Do you prefer Tama or the city center when writing?

HN: Given today’s sensibilities, it’s definitely here (Tama) resonates more. By putting some distance between yourself and the scenes you’ve witnessed or the kindness of people, you start to grasp things like poignancy, loneliness or wabi-sabi. The sense of distance from your subject is crucial. When you’re in the thick of it, there are things you can’t see. If you stay too close, you’ll quickly find yourself unable to write anything at all.

Tama: The Starting Point for New Visions

－－How would you describe today’s Tokyo?

HN: What’s important now is the memory of the land—the stories tied to a particular place. When you view or read something, there’s often a narrative rooted in that land, and I think there’s still immense literary potential in that connection. Tokyo is rich with such memories, making it a city with plenty of literary and even cinematic possibilities.

－－What are Tokyo’s “land memories”?

HN: The legendary Japanese musicians, Haruomi Hosono and Takashi Matsumoto once told me, “It used to snow a lot in Tokyo. Streetcars ran along Aoyama-dori.” Matsumoto added, “I vividly remember seeing the tracks of streetcars etched into the road. That’s my memory of the land.” Everyone probably has such memories tied to places.

ICU used to be part of the Nakajima Aircraft Company, which was bombed during the latter stages of World War II, specifically in November 1944. My mother’s family home was in Kichijoji at the time. She told me that when she went to school the next day, some of her classmates were injured and bandaged. She even went to see the bomb site herself. That’s part of my family’s memory and legacy.

Also, Osamu Dazai drowned himself in 1948 in the Tamagawa Josui (River Tama Aqueduct).  It’s a calm stream now, but it was once so swift and full of water that it earned the dangerous name “man-eating river.”

－－What novels are set in Tama?

HN: Novels inevitably feature a sense of place. In my debut novel Atashi wa Juice (I’m Juice), a high school girl from Kichijoji falls in love with a young Iranian man. There’s a scene where she steps into the soft soil of a potato field, and that tactile sensation stays with her. I wrote about that kind of heightened sensory awareness.

There’s a series of novels by Osamu Dazai. Then there’s Shohei Ooka’s The Lady of Musashino and Mitsuharu Kaneko’s poetry. Even Jakucho Setouchi lived in Mitaka and wrote novels there. You could call it “Chuo Line literature”—Tama is full of literary history. Both Haruki Murakami and Ryu Murakami also used to live in Tama.

－－What drives your creativity?

HN: I think it’s a sense of absence, of incompleteness. People who are entirely fulfilled don’t write. Ryu Murakami once told me about a conversation he had with the novelist, Kenji Nakagami. Murakami said, “I’m always anxious,” and Nakagami replied, “That anxiety is what makes you feel you must write.”

Those who feel a sense of emptiness within themselves can’t help but write. I think that kind of literature really resonates with people. Novels by insecure writers are raw and gripping, don’t you think? The key to a good essay is failure. Nobody wants to read about your bragging and successes. What touches people’s hearts are stories of failure, deep anxieties, or maddening love.

About Higashi-Koganei

Located near several universities, Higashi-Koganei offers a serene retreat with several large parks in Koganei City, ensuring that residents are always close to nature. The station, which opened on September 10, 1964, was the first in Japan to be fully funded by local residents. At the time, the stations along the Chuo Line between Mitaka and Tachikawa—Musashi-sakai, Musashi-koganei, Kokubunji, and Kunitachi—had all been established before World War II. Following the post-war population influx into the Tokyo metropolitan area, there was growing demand for new stations, and Higashi-Koganei Station became a pioneering response to this need.

Headshot photography Ｋ.KURIGAMI, landscape photography Hiroshi Nobue