Work
Chiri was in her mid-teens when she first met Japanese linguist and Ainu language scholar Kyōsuke Kindaichi during the nation's Taishō period. He was traveling around Hokkaidō in search of Ainu transmitters of oral literature, and had come to seek out Imekanu and Monashinouku. Upon meeting Chiri, who was still living with Imekanu, Kindaichi immediately recognized her potential and spoke to her about his work. When Kindaichi explained the value he saw in preserving Ainu folklore and traditions to Chiri, she decided to dedicate the rest of her life to studying, recording, and translating yukar (Kindaichi 1997).
Kindaichi eventually returned to Tokyo, but sent Chiri blank notebooks so she could record whatever came to mind about Ainu culture and language. She chose to record the tales her grandmother chanted, using romaji to express the Ainu sounds, and then translated the transcribed yukar into Japanese. Eventually, Kindaichi persuaded her to join him in Tokyo to assist him in his work collecting and translating yukar. However, only months after arriving in Tokyo and on the same night she completed her first yukar anthology, she suddenly died from heart failure. She was only nineteen years old (Fujimoto 1991).
Read more about this topic: Yukie Chiri
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And women with petticoats coloured like flame.
And little bare feet that were blue with cold,
Went dancing back to the age of gold,
And all the world went gay, went gay,
For half an hour in the street to-day.”
—“Seumas” “O’Sullivan” (1879–1958)
“We are weighed down, every moment, by the conception and the sensation of Time. And there are but two means of escaping and forgetting this nightmare: pleasure and work. Pleasure consumes us. Work strengthens us. Let us choose.”
—Charles Baudelaire (1821–1867)
“... in love, barriers cannot be destroyed from the outside by the one to whom the cause despair, no matter what he does; and it is only when he is no longer concerned with them that, suddenly, as a result of work coming from elsewhere, accomplished within the one who did not love him, these barriers, formerly attacked without success, fall futilely.”
—Marcel Proust (1871–1922)