Oscar Wilde’s Moleskine
As a companion for inspiration instead, the black book survives. According to the current maker of the book, it was Chatwin who called the little device a “Moleskine.” Before that, they were just little black books. These notebooks were a rarity found only in France and in their own way were a talisman of the traveled intellectual. Crafted by a small family in Tours, the slightly expensive notebooks became increasingly rare in the post WWII world of mass production and the “Big-Mart”-ing of the global economy. By 1986, the little black notebook had gone the way of the Dodo, on display only in the museums of those great thinkers and artisans, also extinct.
As Moleskine explains, Chatwin was determined to use these notebooks until the very end:
“In the mid-1980s, these notebooks became increasingly scarce, and then vanished entirely. In his book The Songlines, Chatwin tells the story of the little black notebook: in 1986, the manufacturer, a small family-owned company in the French city of Tours, went out of business. “Le vrai moleskine n’est plus,” are the lapidary words he puts into the mouth of the owner of the stationery shop in the Rue de l’Ancienne Comédie, where he usually purchased his notebooks. Chatwin set about buying up all the notebooks that he could find before his departure for Australia, but there were still not enough.”
A connoisseur of this analog technology, Modo&Modo revived the little notebook in 1997 in Milan. And, in the 21st century economy, good products with a niche market (such as Hostess Twinkies and Pabst Blue Ribbon beer) can be salvaged by venture capital, Syntegra Capital, manufactured under the nom de guerre “Moleskine SpA.” I do not care who makes this thing of beauty today, whether Paris or Milan or Turkey or China. Each book is handmade and can be returned in the unlikely event of a defect.
I have burned through about a dozen of these notebooks since discovering them a few years ago, and continue to fill them at a clip of four to five a year. They are not slick like a Jobsian glass screen, nor do they contain titillating apps (though doodles abound). My inquires, inspirations and ignorance fill these pages. They are as close to a sketch of the author as any brooding diary could capture. The Moleskine captures not so much my sentiment, mood or thoughts but rather, the way I think; the things that intrigue or revile me in the moment, the turns of phrase I can stow away for future use. They are thoroughly broken in by the time I am through with them, but still stand up as a reference, a personal encyclopedia.
I cannot imagine a device that could ever connect me with my own thoughts as efficiently as acid-free paper, capturing the ink of my roller ball, spell-check free and uninhibited, as the Moleskine. And whether Hipster or Crankshaft, Steampunk or Conservative, do reach for this pad, before the iPad, next time you have a thought worth keeping.
Picasso’s Moleskine…looks like “Blue Period” work.
Picasso’s Moleskine Credit: http://www.notebookstories.com/2013/05/06/picasso-sketchbook/#utm_source=feed&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=feed