Notebooks

Today I browsed around the stationery department, as I often do in m lunch time. I like the smell of papers, the various colors of pens and pencils spread all around, students’ notebooks and the like. But this time, my heart went nearly to a stop when I discovered that my favourite shopping place finally got the "Moleskine" notebooks. They were all there, neatly arranged, in their perfect proportions and black covers. All gently appealing to my drooling self, which didn’t wait to bend closer and manipulate the precious objects of its affection with utmost care.



I know that, in our era of progress, PDA and modernity, I would be a freak to say so, but I have a kinda particular relationship with notebooks. I love them all. I love flipping through their white pages, to me they enclose much more mystery and promises than any other items. To me they represent the freedom of spirit, able to create between those pages the most wonderful stories, or the most secret ones. To me, notebooks have a life on their own, and it’s kinda with a religious care that I watch them or touch them.

As far as I can remember, I always had a notebook around. Be it the plain one you get for free at school, or the more elaborated one, with a hard cover and decorations I used to “keep for later”, since I would reluctantly write anything on it, thus breaking the magic of it’s virgin pages.

My mom used to tell me it will “pass with age”. That when I grow old, I would have more mature concern, than choosing a notebook. To write what in it, after all? Well in fact it didn’t pass. At all. It got worse. For when I become able to earn my own living, there were no more obstacles between me and the object of my affection, but my own free will.

Of course, I’ve been trying to rationalize. C’mon, what’s the use spending fifteen bucks (yes, fifteen) on a notebook, when you can write all the same on plain, cheap paper? Why buying yet another notebook, when you got plenty of those waiting for you in the corners of your drawers –remind me to write an entry about those too – almost untouched, and still waiting for your literary genius to spread on? Allright, Mister Justice, Sir I admit you are right-oh !!! I plead guilty all way through.

I admit that it’s not the beauty of an object that makes the writing easier. And that it certainly won’t give me any more brilliant ideas. It’s not because famous writers and painters used it that it gonna make me the next Goncourt prize.

But I always felt that the words, even the simplest, even the clumsiest, would look more beautiful if we granted them a nice place to live in. I always felt that, whereas some people find their perfect heaven on a beer and a football match, I would find mine by opening a nice notebook, and write whatever comes to my mind. However crappy it would be, I would simply enjoy the gesture. And maybe my little pride would be happy to trigger some interrogations in the passers-by mind, wondering about that little unusual object between my hands.

Maybe that’s my old-fashioned way of life that shines thru, I don’t know.

But somehow, I tell to myself that fifteen bucks to Paradise isn’t that expensive after all.
Only the price of a decent meal, or two monthly magazines.

And I think I would happily trade those for a little peace of my own heaven …