On leaving margins
A notebook with no empty space is a finished object. The useful ones still have room in the edges.
I used to fill every line, as if paper were a resource I might run out of. The result was a set of books I never wanted to reopen: dense, self-important, and somehow already complete. There was no place to return and disagree with myself.
Now I leave a wide margin, and sometimes a whole page. A note written in March can be answered in September, in a smaller hand, without starting a new volume. The conversation is with a former self who still deserves a little space.
This is also, I think, a way of reading. A book that arrives with my comments already decided is not being read so much as confirmed. The margin is a promise that I might yet change my mind.