午夜剧场

I graduated from the Juku's Department of Library Science in 1960. That was already 60 years ago. I remember the day I walked up the slope with the post office on the right, entered through the Maboroshi no Mon, and suddenly burst into the Department of Library Science office at the back of the old wooden building (Building No. 5) that used to be the 午夜剧场 Gaigo school building, asking, "Can I study children's literature here?" Looking back, it is strange that in my early twenties, when I was rather indecisive, I took such action based only on a small newspaper advertisement for student recruitment. But one could say that everything started from there.

Having spent my childhood without knowing what a library was, it was during my two years in the Department of Library Science that I was introduced to the existence of public libraries and taught that there was a profession called a children's librarian, which involved children and the books I loved. From the moment my heart raced at the thought that this was what I wanted to do until today, I have moved through various fields of activity—starting with public libraries, then a home library in my own house, and finally a private library as a corporate organization. What a blessing it has been to remain in the work of sharing the joy of books with children throughout it all.

What is regrettable is that because I began the reckless adventure of a private library, my opportunities to interact directly with children have decreased year by year. In their place, work that involves appealing to adults about the importance of children's reading has increased. For many years now, I have continued to go out and give talks whenever requested—at school PTAs, nursery school parents' associations, and gatherings of people involved in children's libraries and librarians.

Children learn how to operate a TV remote or fiddle with a smartphone without being taught, but the joy of books does not become a child's own unless an adult nearby acts as an intermediary. Therefore, wherever I go, I have made the request: please read picture books to young children at home, and please read books even to children who have learned to read for themselves. I do this because it is enjoyable for the child and because it is the surest path to reading.

However, when dealing with adults, especially those in education, it is not enough to stop there; one must explain the benefits of children reading books. For example: it nurtures the imagination. It builds language skills. It increases knowledge and broadens horizons. It deepens understanding of people and society. It fosters an attitude of thinking deeply without being swept away by superficial information. It provides emotional stability by finding someone who understands them within a book. If reading habits are established, they gain the means to continue learning throughout their lives. They can find friends and mentors who transcend time and space within books. It is an easy, inexpensive, and yet indispensable pleasure for a rich life, and so on.

All of these things are true, and I can cite countless examples to prove them. While I have continued to persuade people earnestly by drawing examples from my surroundings and from books, deep in my heart, I have always felt a bit uneasy about the phrasing "because there are these good benefits." If I were asked, "Then, if there are no benefits, is it okay not to read books?" or "Did you read books because there were benefits?" I feel that the answer is no.

Having worked for a long time recommending books to children, what I think now is that, in my case, the primary motivation for recommending a book is not because it has good effects, but rather the simple and natural feeling of wanting the other person to experience the same joy that I tasted.

That mysterious atmosphere I felt as a young child when I was immersed in a book and traveling through worlds not of this earth; the tension of palms sweating over adventures that could never happen to me; the pleasure of mental fog clearing through words; the emotion of encountering something beautiful and noble, even if I didn't fully understand it... those many experiences, which can only be summed up in one word as "joy," are the real reason I read books, and in the end, they generated the energy that pushed my work forward.

Today, children's lives have become surprisingly busy compared to the past, and there are many competitors vying for that small amount of leisure time against books. There are also more parents who lack the leeway to gently watch over their children's growth. In such an environment, it is not easy to get children to know the joy of reading.

As a children's librarian, I must work hard, but perhaps it is because I have grown old that I no longer feel like frantically appealing for the benefits of reading. I only hope to quietly but firmly convey to the children who happen to come into my life, even if it is just one child: "I (?) had fun reading books"—while praying that the child will find that same joy.

My belief remains unchanged, however, that society cannot maintain a healthy balance unless it holds within it a certain percentage of people who read books, even if the number is small.