The Gift of a Notebook

Kindly reader, you must be tired by now, but permit me to tell yet one more story. It touches not only upon the work of a writer—who must constantly traffic in fleeting details and incidentals—but also upon the life of any person who day after day must remind themselves of a number of tedious objectives. Naturally, my story has to do with one’s most vital companion, the little black notebook. It is perfectly suited to life’s journeys, both within and without; hence St. George would find one just as handy to record his impression of the dragon’s mesquite breath as would St. Jerome, the scholarly saint, to record his latest clever translation of an ancient Greek poem.

The notebook is no less valuable to the poor, unappreciated writer. One glance at the tightly bound, shining black cover of a pocket-sized notebook is enough to fire the mind with possibilities. Even the most jaded writers, wary of the world’s unreasonableness, would have to admit in view of the blank notebook and its coquettish red ribbon that life is in fact an unwritten adventure.

Well, reader, if you’re one to keep up not only with the latest in literature, but with current events as well, you have likely noticed that speculation is the world’s recent indulgence; millions of people are buying shares in profitless companies and hoping impotently for their breakout success. Meanwhile, to my surprise, much the same is happening to writers. Speculators in literary ephemera have lately visited the studios of unpublished writers, offering monstrous sums for their old notebooks.

Now, if it’s not already clear, I was until recently a penniless writer, continually irritated by his impoverished state. As everyone knows, the tasks to be completed when one has need of money are endless, such that, in the flower of youth, instead of writing at length about what in life is inspired and exalting, I was always compelled to do the most menial tasks and send many thousands of professional e-mails. But then, finally, I was put in touch with a few of these speculators, who visited my humble studio—that is, my squalid apartment—to see my wares and bid on my little black notebooks.

It goes without saying that many of these speculators are not readers and thus must be impressed by superficial means. Well, the state of my apartment leaves no doubt as to the inclination of my mind. There is little here that might be considered permanent: my books are stacked on the floor and covered with dust; my bed, likewise, is on the floor; and for decoration I have just a few plants by the window. The notebooks are kept out of the way, in a grey box that once held a garden hose.

I’ve accumulated dozens of these notebooks, now tokens of memories that would’ve otherwise been lost by the scattering influence of time. In these notebooks, the words, in all their suppleness on the page, link the past to the present, realizing a dizzying variety of experiences—and yielding a specificity which the mind only partially retains. Without these notebooks, I sadly muse, life is fleeting and infinitely the same—but then what good have they brought me?

The first speculator to visit my studio was a short, pugnacious man. He wore blue trousers and a white oxford shirt. I knew at once my condition affected him. He looked down at the parched lilies on the floor, the bundle of lavender gathered delicately in a jar, and, lastly, my blue typewriter. Yes, he must have thought, this is a writer. His distaste was tempered with sensual fascination.

I knew, of course, that I’d give him nothing, and I anticipated from the outset that he would insult me with a ridiculous offer. Indeed, he proposed a trade, presenting to me a notebook he’d cadged from some other poor writer.

I believe a young woman had kept the notebook; it contained a journal of a trip to Buenos Aires, to see an unnamed friend, and, along with it, an account of a persistent urinary tract infection. I discreetly saw the man to the door.

The next visitor was tall, thoughtful, and altogether more promising. He reminded me of Lermontov—sharp, arrogant, with an imposing forehead. He took a chair by the window—the sun was just then rising from behind a building—and read leisurely through a few notebooks. Every now and then his eyebrow quivered like a hunting bow. Finally, he offered me a steep discount on a washing machine. I was taken by surprise—what in me inspired him to make such a ludicrous offer? Was that the impression I made on a man who so strikingly reminded me of the great Russian dilettante?

Truthfully, I had run out of hope, but one further visit was arranged for an older woman with a reputation as a patroness. This time I spared not a single preparation: I put fresh lilies in a vase and wiped the dust from my precious books. Soon my little apartment resembled a friary, dusky, fresh and reverent.

The woman, an old Milanese, stood no taller than five feet in her shoes. She had a bullish presence and keen eyes that prodded each loose page with avian interest, as if to construct a nest. She spoke to me kindly and at length, about the paintings of Leonora Carrington, Spanish baroque theater, Hokusai—and then, before leaving, she wrote me a check for $20,000.

How can one part so easily with notebooks, as if consigning a troubled past? — That is what she asked me in her Milanese English. The next day, her porter carried off the lot of my notebooks.

Of course these notebooks were invaluable; yet, depositing the sum into my bank account, I thought, what good is all that clutter to the writer?

To celebrate my good fortune, I bought myself a new set of notebooks.