Forbidden Notebook

by Alba de Céspedes

“The genius of Alba de Céspedes in this book is in shattering the illusion that writing is a place of refuge, and replacing it with the certainty that it is a place that always both pollutes and sabotages us.”

I’m afraid that if I admitted I’d enjoyed even a short rest or some diversion, I would lose the reputation I have of dedicating every second of my time to the family. No one would remember the countless hours I spend in the office or in the kitchen or shopping or mending but only the brief moments I confessed I’d spent reading a book or taking a walk.

My life always appeared rather insignificant, without remarkable events, apart from my marriage and the birth of the children. Instead, ever since I happened to start keeping a diary, I seem to have discovered that a word or an intonation can be just as important, or even more, than the facts we’re accustomed to consider important. If we can learn to understand the smallest things that happen every day, then maybe we can learn to truly understand the secret meaning of life. But I don’t know if it’s a good thing, I’m afraid not.

It’s terrible to think that I sacrificed my entire self to beautifully perform tasks that they consider obvious, natural.

But maybe it’s hard to maintain friendships for a lifetime no matter what. In reality, at a certain moment, each of us changes, becomes different, some go forward, others remain fixed, and thus we move in opposite directions, so there’s no longer a meeting place, no longer anything in common.

If I hadn’t written it, I would have forgotten about it. We’re always inclined to forget what we’ve said or done in the past, partly in order not to have the tremendous obligation to remain faithful to it. Otherwise, it seems to me, we would all discover that we’re full of mistakes and, above all, contradictions, between what we intended to do and what we have done, between what we would desire to be and what we are content to be.

And yet yesterday, talking to my mother about material things, the market, the household chores, I realized that through that conventional language we have always talked about what was happening inside us, intimately, not confessing it openly but with an understanding that can exist only between mother and daughter.

Maybe it’s true. At a certain point we no longer understand what is kindness and what is ruthlessness in the life of a family.

Her constant reflecting scares me and, especially, inspires pity. It’s pointless to think so much, the days take their course regardless, indifferent; Mirella seems trapped in a cruel machine that will crush her. I

talked to my mother about it and she said that if parents want to live peacefully, at a certain age they have to pretend not to be intelligent.