A commonplace book is not a diary. It does not ask how you feel. It asks what you found, and where, and whether you might need it again.

I copy lines into mine the way a squirrel buries nuts: without much plan, but with absolute faith that winter will come. Some pages are crowded. Others hold a single sentence and a great deal of white space.

The pleasure is in return. Opening the book months later and finding a stranger's words waiting for you, still warm from the first time you underlined them.