Nakahara Chuya is actually a very landed man.
That doesn't mean he's narrow, limited or short-sighted, no matter how nervous a jerk says he is. Chuya just prefers to be realistic. Chuya is organized, efficient, and practical;
Chuya keeps an eye on the papers, the exchange rate, the situation in the city, and his own regime as far as possible with his work;
Chuya holds his office in perfect order, and he holds himself in his hands, even when talking to stupid and sometimes boorish partners;
Feeling the titanic effort of will eradicates the impulsive fighter and cultivates a prudent, visionary, competent boss, worthy of one of the five seats in the conference room (out of six, in fact, but the first of them - for Mori-don).
For Chui, every decision is like a minefield, every step is strangely checked and nauseous: his appointment to the post of head is still a controversial topic.
He is doubted and doubted for a reason: he is still a fighter, still thinking for a minute, still unable to keep himself in check. Feeling every day that he is worthy; he has to be two, no, three times more diligent than those around him to stay on the same level with them.
Chuya always thinks only of the business. About important things, about serious things, about useful and necessary things, and about his people, of course, too. It's not about abstract forms, high matter, unrealistic "what if..." and other useless dreams.
Dreams for idiots; competent people have tasks and goals they achieve.
However, sometimes abstract forms and high matter have to allocate time - only for practical purposes, of course. On a rare weekend to get out to the museum for the imported exhibition of pre-Raphaelites, read before going to bed the novel about a picture with a bird, which recently won the Pulitzer Prize (this is full of crap: just suffering and procrastination, generously seasoned with drugs.
Neomodernism in all its glory, Dazai would appreciate it).
This is right, this is reasonable; he is a high-ranking official, he needs to be a cultural, comprehensively developed person. This is the image.
Carefully verified image of a representative of the high society, almost an aristocrat. Everybody knows that Nakahara-san has a unique, instantly memorable style in his clothes, that Nakahara-san speaks fluent French, has an excellent understanding of fighting strategies, literature and wine, and that he is extremely competent in working matters.
Nakahara Chuya is a flint, his authority among his subordinates is unbelievably high, he is trusted, he is poisoned with bikes behind a sake sake and reported on both victories and failures, and most importantly, he is followed.
How much time does it take for him to maintain the illusion of his own impeccable competence, no one needs to know.
But what Nakahara Chuya certainly does not do is not write poetry. He has no time, no desire, no poems for him
- something distant, ephemeral, unattainable, like the constellations of the Virgin and Crane. Chuya does not sit over a sheet of linen paper, displaying uneven lines, does not write on napkins anything but the coordinates and phones of partners, does not suffer from the intangible and unspoken
- where can he eat, if there is no time to eat?
- Doesn't feel any desire to describe surrounding landscapes with silly pathetic metaphors and doesn't search for sense there where it cannot be by default. Nakahara Chuya is real, palpable, contrasting to rubber in his eyes;
Nakahara Chuya is made up of flesh, blood and steel, and a little bit of good wine. Nakahara Chui has scars from bullets and blades, traces of ink on his hands, a full briefcase of plans for tomorrow's operation, two shelves of wine, a baked duck in the fridge and, you won't believe, "Looking for lost time" on the nightstand by the bedside table - in a word, absolutely normal things, not that's all.
Nakahara Chuya, day after day, with the tenacity of a masochist, squeezes his life into the framework of common sense, cutting off all unnecessary things, changing himself slowly and painfully, turning into the elite of the mafia from who he is now. It's not strange and not stupid at all, and Kierkegaard's "despair of the possible" has nothing to do with it, no matter what Dazai says. It is not afraid to change, but quite naturally. After all, it changes for the better, turns into someone more intelligent, strong, persistent. In a person who does not allow himself to go to the enemy without a plan, and completely does not remember about the departed (not) friends.