Book Review On The Notebook Novels & Stories

One of the private ones. "Not both," he said. "One." Adrian held it carefully. "Can I—" he started. "Yes," Cassian said. "I'll be in the study." Adrian read it alone, which was what Cassian had apparently needed — for the reading to be private even if the content wasn't. He understood this. He understood Cassian. He read it slowly. The notebook contained thirty years of things Cassian could not say aloud. Not because they were secret — many of them were things Adrian had known through the bond — but because saying them aloud would have made them too large, too exposed, too much.

"I was twenty-nine and I had met someone on the night bus and had a series of conversations that stayed with me when the person was gone. And I wrote it down the only way I could." Daniel looked at the dark blue notebook on the table. He thought about the twenty-nine year old Adrian and the four months on the night bus and the composition written in the year of it. He thought about all the years between twenty-nine and the rainy night, the nine years of the carrying, and the composition in the notebook all that time — the inside view of the recognition, preserved. He thought: the notebook is not February. The notebook is the kept thing. The thing held in the honest container, not hidden, not

The study window is dark. The blue notebook is inside. On the desk. Between the law books and the biographies. "Okay," I say. "Okay?" "Yes. I will read it." "Now?" "Now." --- We go inside. Damon walks to the study. He opens the drawer. He takes out the notebook. Blue. Leather. The pages are worn. The spine is cracked. He has read it and reread it and read it again. He hands it to me. His hands are shaking.

I had another hour before my next class so I just decided to go to the library and wait there because staying in one place somehow eases the pain. I walked into the library with a cup of black coffee in my hand. I walked to a quiet and secluded place and sat on a chair. I took a deep breath as I drank from my coffee. I took out my favorite book, The Notebook, from my bag and placed it on the desk. I can't count the number of times I had read the book. It has so much behind it, love, pain, sorrow, loss and grief. I cried the first time I read the book. I also cried the first time I watched the movie.

It seems to be something quite important to her. “Yay! Here it is!!! I finally found it.” Anna took a notebook with a black cover. The outside was covered with a leather cloth, and although the edge of the cover was worn but visible, this notebook was very well preserved. Flipping the first few pages, Anna happily read the contents of the notebook written by hand. At a glance, all seemed to be formulas and some sample solutions for math. Anna put the old notebook on the table, took the pink paper that had been straightened, and read the topic on it again.

I was behaving like a pervert. I continued to fold the remaining clothes and when I was done, I hesitantly looked looked at the shirt that I had held earlier. Reaching out, I held it and sniffed it more before folding it and putting it back. I got one of Andre's notebooks and sat on his bed. Laying on the bed, I made myself comfortable and began to read through his notebook. It was filled with study notes and important highlights. Reading his book made me realise that he was quite the intellectual despite not looking like one.

He took the notebook from the nightstand drawer. He hadn't intended to keep a notebook. It had started as a practical thing—a place to write down recipes, to track the rhythms of the penthouse, to make note of Alexander's preferences so he wouldn't forget them. But somewhere along the way, it had become something else. The notebook held the small things he didn't want to lose: the way Alexander took his coffee (black, no sugar, the same every day), the books he'd recommended (the Russian novels, the military history, the poetry that had surprised Elijah with its tenderness), the phrases he'd used that had lodged themselves in Elijah's memory and refused to leave. He would have liked you. The

Was it perhaps? There was a flash of discomfort a tiny crack in her well-planned triumph. The notebook. That fucking journal. It was a liability as well as an idiotic childish thing full of Ivys innocent ideas and observations. It included information on Sloans whereabouts schedule and secrets. the very things they were attempting to reveal.

The date in the blue notebook said the fourteenth. It arrived on a Thursday, the way dates in notebooks arrived — not as an event but as a morning that was simply the morning of the thing. I had looked at the notebook twice since February, not to count down but out of the specific kind of attention you gave to things you were genuinely looking forward to. The harbour town's book was on the study shelf now, read, its margins populated with the small marks Sophia made in books she was working through. She had read it in three evenings and returned it to me with a look that said she had found it useful.