I love what Shakespeare wrote from the point-of-view of the sea: ‘A hundred thousand welcomes! I could weep, And I could laugh; I am light, and heavy. Welcome!’

The sea is the most musical of landscapes.

Walking along the beach last night, my brother said he’d turn into a fish because he likes swimming. I’d rather turn into a bird, so I could sing as I look down at the waves.

I wish you were here, Jonás.

I wish you were here.

I wish.

I weave.

I unravel.

Am I getting closer or am I getting further away?

I realise how good it is to reach the bottom. Accidentally or on purpose. Down where the ship sinks, down where there’s no light. Where it’s cold and dark, and there are only words. Then emerging, seeing the nappy tossed this way and that on the surf. A nappy or anything else that sullies the expanse. A reminder. A Post-it for the ordinary. Like one nurse singing a Shakira song to another. Or the bell for the rubbish truck announcing its arrival, so you hurry to tie a knot in the plastic bag or do whatever else reminds you how good it is to be on the surface. Being here is so good.

Shall we do a crossword or do you want to play cards with us?

I didn’t tell you, but one advantage of the ideal notebook is that it can record the sound of the sea, so you can listen when you get back.

That ebb and flow.

Listen, I want to tell you something. There was once a sea that was horrible in the daytime and beautiful at night. The wind was confused. It didn’t understand why, if it always blew in more or less the same direction, the sea could be horrible and beautiful on the same day. Perhaps what’s horrible can also be beautiful, thought the wind.

Perhaps what’s horrible is also beautiful, Jonás.

Then what could pain turn into?

Maybe the same stairs that go down also go up.

22

22

Back at work, back at home and back to writing in pencil. I’ve realised that some pens bring out the worst defects of handwriting, and others emphasise the best. A pencil, however, shows the writing for what it is, with no filters, as if lit by natural light. But the notebook seems to argue in favour of the pen, as if the pencil were making it uncomfortable, as if the blue lines were supposed to be the background. The lines and the pencil have the same tone, neither of the two stands out. The notebook, unconvinced, seems to say: ‘Let the pens come unto me, for theirs is the kingdom of permanence.’

And so the notebook proverbs begin.