The History of the Moleskine Notebook

The infamous Moleskine notebook, a favorite of Earnest Hemingway, Andre Breton, and Henri Matisse, has enjoyed a resurgence in recent years. Today several different models of this 300-year-old design are available in mass-market bookstores, coffee shops and even some supermarkets. The Moleskine Company has managed to tap in to a hungry creative market of people who, despite their claims to the contrary, care a great deal about appearances. What is it about this particular style of notebook that gives it such appeal?

For starters, Moleskine enjoys a storied pedigree. Back in Versailles in the 1920s, Earnest Hemingway sat in Parisian cafes scrawling in his trusty Moleskine. For Hemingway, the notebook was more a pleasing aesthetic object than a statement. The soft leather and heavy-stock pages take the ink and stand up to a great deal of abuse. The handy tie secures the book closed so it doesn’t get bent and mangled in a full shoulder bag. The same goes for Pablo Picasso who preferred the Moleskine for sketching. In this sense, the Moleskine is an example of a good design that endures for its utility. But today, when thousands of notebooks are available for less money than a Moleskine, consumers are clearly concerned with more than utility. They want the history of the object. They want to be part of a great literary tradition. They want their own scrawlings to endure.

This strange attachment to the history of a type of object puzzles. Clearly the Moleskine today’s writer holds in her hand bears no connection to the Moleskine of the famous travel writer Bruce Chatwin, or the surrealist Andre Breton. There is a sense that the design of the object somehow inspired the words within—that the tools of one’s trade directly influence the trade itself. While this might be true for carpentry, in today’s writing world full of iPads and laptops, why does this attachment persist?

Perhaps it is precisely because of our modern-day reliance on keypads and virtual space that makes that pen and paper newly compelling. And of course it is true that each writer has his preferred tools for writing. Some prefer a 1930’s Underwood typewriter while others are content to compose their novel on a Palm Pre. Whether or not the idea is true that the mechanics of writing affects the finished product, there is no end in sight to the assumption that it does.

Writers are a superstitious bunch. It makes sense that a life spent relying on the elusive spark of inspiration might lead one to fits of metaphysical fancy. Like a baseball player who never changes his playoff socks, a writer who has succeeded once on a Moleskine isn’t likely to trade it in for a legal pad. Whether or not the people over at Moleskine saw it coming, they’ve got their hands on an enduring commodity.

However, there is also the culture of writing and art to consider—a culture traditionally obsessed with novelty. Now that the Moleskine is available to anyone with $12 and a dream, will the mystique of the object diminish? At what point will writers begin to seek out other objects to identify themselves as the creative elite? What I’m really asking is: when should I sell my shares in Moleskine?