Last weekend, I read a wonderful novel called Andorra
I decided to visit the stationers. The front part of the store exhibited the expected paraphernalia, and a hall led to a room in back which contained fine paper from around the world. These papers were draped over wooden rods that skirted the room at various levels: one sheet of each, on display, like paintings. In the center of this room a glass case displayed an assortment of journals of varying sizes, bound by a variety of materials. It was not until I saw these journals that I realized that I wanted to write a book to record my new life. I wanted to put down, hour by hour, day by day, in some artful way, what I encountered, what had meaning to me, what I said and what was said to me, how I felt, and what I saw, so that if this new life failed, I would have a record, something left: a souvenir.
The books were all beautiful: bound in various leathers and fabrics, but one in particular drew my attention. It was a tall volume, almost twice as tall as it was wide, and its boards were covered with an exotically patterned fabric, in shades of rust and indigo. At my request a young man extracted this book from the case and explained to me that it had been created in Florence, from Japanese paper and Balinese fabric. I liked the fact that materials from the East had converged so beautifully in the West; it seemed to me to be a book of the world, and I bought it. From a case in the front of the store I selected and purchased a fountain pen made from some amber resin, which a clerk carefully filled with thick black squid ink, and I carried my two purchases out onto the plaza with a feeling of euphoria and expectation.© Peter Cameron
If you’re a true notebook lover, surely there’s no other response to this than a sigh and the word “Yes.”