What it means for a record never intended for anyone else to become a book: Listening to Taro Yabe talk about 'Mitsuko Note'

The other day, while listening to "SUNDAY’S POST" on the radio, I heard Taro Yabe as a guest.
It is a program hosted by Natsumi Uga and Kundo Koyama. I was listening casually, but I was deeply drawn to a book introduced there called "Mitsuko Note."
"Mitsuko Note" is a book based on a series of notebooks—like a picture diary—that Taro Yabe’s father, the picture book author Mitsunori Yabe, kept while chronicling the growth of his daughter, Mitsuko.
There are 38 notebooks in total.
Moreover, they were never drawn with the intention of showing them to anyone else.
This is what fascinated me so much.
Not to be evaluated by others.
Not to win an award.
Not to be sold.
Simply to capture the image of his child right before his eyes, amidst the flow of daily life.
And for that to become a book decades later.
I thought this was an amazing thing.
Mr. Yabe apparently took the proposal to publishers, hoping to release this book. However, he was told, "We can't publish this because there are no precedents or similar books."
Under normal circumstances, that might be where the story ends.
But Mr. Yabe, conversely, thought, "That is exactly why I should publish it," and ended up starting his own publishing company.
The name of the publishing company is "Taro-sha."
I thought this story was also very interesting.
We can't do it because there is no precedent.
It's difficult because there are no similar books.
We can't publish it because we don't know if it will sell.
This is not just a story about the publishing world. It is a phrase often heard in government, community activities, and urban development.
However, aren't the things that are truly important always "without precedent" at first?
Because someone does it first, it becomes a precedent.
Because someone believes in its value, it takes shape.
Because someone thinks, "This should be preserved," it reaches the next person.
I believe "Mitsuko Note" is that kind of book.
What was impressive in the program was Mr. Yabe saying, "There are things that photos cannot capture."
Nowadays, we can easily save photos and videos with our smartphones. We can instantly capture our children's growth, events, and daily life. We live in an era where we possess an amount of records incomparable to the past.
However, at the same time, there are things that are difficult to preserve through photos and videos.
What that child was looking at.
How the parent perceived that moment.
With what kind of gaze and what kind of feelings they were watching over them.
A picture diary contains something that transcends a mere record.
The tremor of the lines, the fading of the colors, the margins, the traces of corrections, the marks of cellophane tape.
Including such things, time itself remains.
To preserve that texture, Mr. Yabe scanned the notebooks in color and made them into a book, including the sun-fading and wear. I feel a deep respect in that as well.
Preserving is not just about keeping things neat and tidy.
By leaving old things as they are, there are things that are conveyed all the more.
I think this is a story that also applies to the records of local history and daily life.
In our own local communities, there are records that have been kept without being intended for anyone to see. Neighborhood association notebooks, photos of local events, records of farm work, old meeting minutes, children's association albums, handwritten memos. Even if they aren't things that would be housed in a grand museum, they certainly contain people's lives, time, and thoughts.
And if left alone, they will eventually be lost.
Listening to the story of "Mitsuko Note," I thought again about the meaning of "preserving."
To preserve is not simply to store.
It is to ensure that the time that existed there can be received by someone else next.
I was also moved by the story that Mr. Yabe started his own publishing company and is even handling the shipping himself. Publishing is not just about riding the big distribution channels. Delivering from hand to hand to those who need it—I think there is the origin of the act of "delivering books" there.
Moreover, he even draws illustrations on the envelopes he sends them in.
Making a book.
Wrapping it.
Sending it.
Thinking of the person receiving it.
I think all of that becomes a single expression.
Work that is not just for money.
Value that cannot be measured by efficiency alone.
Carefully receiving and carefully delivering a part of someone's life.
Isn't "Mitsuko Note" filled with such important things?
We tend to judge things by results, efficiency, and numbers every day. Of course, those are important too. However, there is value in people's lives and local activities that is hard to turn into numbers.
The gaze watching over a child.
Memories of a family.
Casual daily events.
Things that no one asked for, but that have been continued.
It may be that in such things, when looking back later, lie the things that were truly important.
The story of the book "Mitsuko Note" was not just an introduction to a single book, but posed the question, "What do we preserve?" and "What do we hand over to the next generation?"
Precisely because there is no precedent, there is meaning in preserving it.
Precisely because it was never intended for anyone to see, there is no lie.
Precisely because it is a record of watching over daily life, it reaches people's hearts.
While listening to the radio, I thought about such things.
I, too, would like to record local matters, the children, and my daily activities as carefully as possible. Not just the big events, but even casual days should have important meaning when looked back upon later.
"Mitsuko Note."
It is a book I definitely want to pick up.