The Notebooks Of Leonardo Da Vinci นิยาย & เรื่องราว

Is this where they stay? His room was really cool. He had big windows which were opened and breeze flooded the room. I realized from the sun it was afternoon so I better hurry up. He had a computer on his desk which was filled with papers, guns and daggers. I looked at them then realized he wrote backwards. Good lord! Talk about secretive much! That's Leonardo da Vinci's style. We learned about this in school. I decided not to read anything in case I got into trouble. I noticed three small boxes on his table. I went over and picked up one.

Packed close together with the density of twenty years of things that had needed somewhere to be. She looked at them. "Lorenzo," she said. "Yes," he said. "Can I read them?" she said. He looked at the shelf. At the notebooks. At the twenty years of the inside of his head that had needed more room than his head provided. "Yes," he said. "Eventually." He held the current one. "Not all at once. Some of them are from before you. They are..." He paused. "Dark. Honest in the way that things are honest when no one is going to read them."

The knowing saw. Don wrote this in the notebook. The notebook was the small black one he carried on walks—the one that had replaced the previous small black notebook, which had filled up and been retired to the study, where it sat on the shelf with the other filled notebooks from the thirty-two years. The accumulation of notebooks. The accumulation of observations. The accumulation of the seeing.

For some reason, Gloriana had expected someone so controlling to be a neat freak, but his desk was barely visible behind small towers of black, green, and red legal tomes and spiral-bound notebooks. A set of inlaid bookcases lined half of one wall, with books stacked vertically and horizontally in a slapdash manner, and what looked like an original Da Vinci dominated another. And that surprised her as well. The painting was called ‘La Scapigliata’ (Ita for ‘The Lady with Dishevelled Hair’). Da Vinci had such a soft, almost magical quality about his work, and that didn’t fit her image of Griffin at all. “It’s an investment,” Griffin replied as if he could read her mind. “So, who is he to you?

While Seraphina was lost in sentimental memories, the young master had already opened the back panel of the frame. Seraphina blinked in surprise. “Didn’t you just say you’d treasure it? Why are you dismantling it already?” Before she could finish her sentence, he pulled out a brown leather notebook from behind the frame. The notebook wasn’t thick, and it fit perfectly into the space behind the back panel. Holding the notebook, he looked at her. “Looks like you’ve never seen this either?” She shook her head. She had no idea it was there. Judging from the look of it, though, it had to belong to her father.

Nothing could bring Catherine back. The notebooks had been neatly labeled by month and year, which made them easy enough to locate. There were two of them, both with dark green covers, their mottled spines worn where silverfish had chewed away at the edges. I carried them downstairs to the study, switched on the light, and began to read. The pages were A4, ruled with precision, each entry marked with the date and time in the margin. Assessment details, observations, medical notes—everything carefully recorded.