Inicia aqui uma série, fragmentária e descontínua, nem sempre sistemática e sucessiva, de apontamentos e impressões, imagens e notas, memórias e jornadas, a que se dá o apropriado nome de
Moleskine.
«MOLESKINE IS THE LEGENDARY NOTEBOOK, USED BY EUROPEAN ARTISTS AND THINKERS FOR THE PAST TWO CENTURIES, FROM VAN GOGH TO PICASSO, FROM ERNEST HEMINGWAY TO BRUCE CHATWIN. This trusty, pocket-size travel companion held sketches,notes, stories and ideas before they were turned into famous images or pages of beloved books. Originally produced by small French bookbinders who supplied the Parisian stationery shops frequented by theinternational avant-garde, by the end of the twentieth century the Moleskine notebook was no longer available.In 1986, the last manufacturer of Moleskine, a family operation in Tours, closed its shutters forever. “Le vrai Moleskine n’est plus” were the lapidary words of the owner of the stationery shop in Rue de l’AncienneComédie where Chatwin stocked up on the notebooks. The English writer had ordered a hundred of them beforeleaving for Australia: he bought up all the Moleskine that he could find, but they were not enough. In 1998, a small Milanese publisher brought Moleskineback again. As the self-effacing keeper of an extraordinarytradition, Moleskine once again began to travel the globe.To capture reality on the move, pin down details, impress upon paper unique aspects of experience: Moleskineis a reservoir of ideas and feelings, a battery that stores discoveries and perceptions, and whose energy can be tapped over time.The legendary black notebook is once again being passed from one pocket to the next; with its various different pagestyles it accompanies the creative professions and the imagination of our time. The adventure of Moleskine continues, and its still-blank pages will tell the rest.»
"To lose a passport was the least of one's worries. To lose a notebook was a catastrophe."
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,/ And sorry I could not travel both/And be one traveler, long I stood/ And looked down one as far as I could/ To where it bent in the undergrowth.// Then took the other, as just as fair,/ And having perhaps the better claim,/ Because it was grassy and wanted wear;/ Though as for that the passing there/ Had worn them really about the same.// And both that morning equally lay/ In leaves no step had trodden black./ Oh, I kept the first for another day!/ Yet knowing how way leads on to way,/ I doubted if I should ever come back.// I shall be telling this with a sigh/ Somewhere ages and ages hence:/ Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--/ I took the one less traveled by,/ And that has made all the difference.
(The Road Not Taken; Robert Frost, 1915) 
