Isabella and the Zibaldone
Isabella sat by the window of the ‘borrowed’ flat just off Charing Cross Road. She was flat-sitting for her friend David, who was on a three-month-long research sabbatical in Rome. The late afternoon sun spilled across the room in warm, slanting beams; the air tinged with a quiet melancholy, as though the day itself was folding inward. The book—The Notebook: A History of Thinking on Paper—lay open on her lap, her fingers tracing the edge of the page, a new chapter, as her eyes fixed on a particular word: Zibaldone. She read:
The Zibaldone, often referred to as Zibaldone di pensieri (Notebook of Thoughts), is a vast collection of writings by the Italian poet and philosopher Giacomo Leopardi (1798–1837). Compiled between 1817 and 1832, it is a sprawling and eclectic personal journal that encompasses a wide range of topics, including philosophy, literature, history, linguistics, and personal reflections.
The word zibaldone itself means “hodgepodge” or “miscellany” in Italian, reflecting the diverse and fragmented nature of the work. The Zibaldone is not organized in a linear or thematic way; rather, it is a mosaic of ideas and observations, often deeply introspective and philosophical. Despite its lack of formal structure, it provides profound insights into Leopardi’s intellectual world and the cultural currents of his time.
The word resonated deeply with her, as if it were a long-lost companion, whispering across the gulf of centuries.
Zibaldone, a place for musings, reflections, quotes, thought streams: attempts to articulate her thoughts. Her notebooks, crammed with the debris of auspicious moments—half-formed poems, a receipt scribbled with a line of overheard dialogue—now felt less like chaos and more like a quiet rebellion against forgetting. Her very own Zibaldone.
She closed the book gently and leaned back in her chair, her gaze adrift. An image appeared of the old chest at her parents’ house, where she’d kept all her notebooks from high school and college days. Since leaving for a place of her own, she hadn’t thought about that old chest since, trusting it as a repository for the figments and fragments of her youth. But now, with that word—zibaldone—stirring her imagination, she found herself questioning what might be forgotten, missing or incomplete perhaps, among those pages. A peculiar uneasiness settled over her; was some part of her earlier days about to surface—or vanish completely?
The warm sunlight folded over her, heavy and drowsy, as though it were tucking her into the folds of the day itself. The book slipped softly from her lap, landing on the floor with a gentle thud. Just a moment, she thought, letting her eyes close as the world shifted beneath her like the turning of a page.
She found herself standing in a dim, labyrinthine bookshop, the air thick with the scent of old paper, weary with age and neglect, as though the pages themselves carried the weight of forgotten moments. Shelves stretched into the dark, each one crammed with mismatched volumes whispering their secrets to the stillness.
Isabella felt a strange urgency as she surveyed the cramped aisles. She knew, instinctively, that here was her own personal zibaldone—an assortment of notebooks that she herself had filled. And here they were. She reached for one of the volumes, a familiar black Moleskine. As she flipped it open, she expected to see her own handwriting—the chaotic profusion of thoughts and feelings captured years ago.
But the pages were blank, pale as untouched snow. She ran her fingers across the faint indentations left by words that once lived there, the ghost of their meaning pressing back against her touch. A chill slid down her spine, sharp and insistent, fearing that her own memories were slipping through her fingers like fine sand.
Frantic now, she pulled more notebooks from the shelves, their covers flapping open as she tried to find something—anything—that remained intact. Each one, however, was the same: blank, all erased somehow; the words disappeared. The blankness—a palpable emptiness—seemed to fill the entire shop, pressing against her chest, making it hard to breathe. This absence of words, loss of meaning itself, felt like an unravelling of a life that had once felt so real.
The shop grew darker, the aisles closing in. She tried to move, but her legs felt leaden, as if rooted to the ground. The sensation of being trapped grew overwhelming; the emptiness now a silence unbearably loud. Just as she thought she might cry out, a single notebook caught her eye, lying on a small table nearby. She reached for it. Its pages were filled, not blank, but the words were unfamiliar, incomprehensible, and the sentences obscure: was it a code of some kind? Her hand trembling, she closed the cover. Then felt a sudden pull, a disorienting lurch backward. She was falling… away alone alost.
Isabella awoke with a start, her breathing rapid, urgent bursts. The room around her was darker now, cloaked in the deep shadows of early evening. She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to steady herself, her heart still racing from the intensity of the dream’s imagery. Just a dream, she told herself, but the fear—and that emptiness—felt alarmingly real.
The Zibaldone, she thought. The word came back to her, and with it, the nagging sense that there was more to explore in her own scattered collection of memories. The old notebooks at her parents’ house weren’t the only collection—she had a set in her Montreal apartment, and of course, right at hand. But that old chest, mysteriously, now felt less like a secure archive and more like fragments of life waiting to be revisited, or perhaps reclaimed.
She stood up slowly, her forehead damp and cold, her gaze falling on the book that had slipped from her lap, lying open on the floor. She picked it up, holding it close for a moment, seeking some reassurance. The unsettledness precipitated by the dream’s intensity hadn’t faded; it had only grown sharper. There was a sudden, overwhelming need to see her old notebooks again—to open that old chest, to flip through the pages, to find out if anything had been lost, misremembered, or had disappeared.
David wouldn’t be back for another few weeks, then she’d be heading back to Montreal. She still had time here in London to do some more writing in her current zibaldone.
As she reached for her phone to call her parents, she knew one thing for certain: a new chapter was beginning. What would she find among the pages of the zibaldone of her youth?
Here are a few inquiry prompts designed to engage readers with the themes, emotions, and ideas in this vignette:
- Reflection on Memory and Meaning:
- Have you ever revisited old journals, notebooks, or writings? How did it feel to reconnect with your past self through those fragments?
- Do you think memories are ever truly lost, or do they just take on new forms over time?
- The Nature of Creativity:
- How do you relate to the idea of a personal “zibaldone” as a collection of thoughts, musings, and inspirations? What might yours look like?
- Does the notion of disorder—like a “hodgepodge” of ideas—play a role in your own creative processes?
- Dreams and Symbolism:
- How do you interpret Isabella’s dream about the bookshop and the vanishing words? What might it symbolize in terms of her relationship with her past or creativity?
- Have you ever had a dream that made you reflect deeply on something unresolved in your waking life?
- Themes of Loss and Rediscovery:
- What do you think Isabella hopes to find in her old notebooks? What might they reveal about her past or present self?
- How does the idea of forgotten or erased memories resonate with you?
- Connection to Literature and Philosophy:
- How does the concept of the zibaldone, as introduced in the story, relate to broader philosophical or personal themes about life and memory?
- Are there other literary or philosophical works that have made you rethink how you organize or preserve your thoughts?