When I was in school, I was a dreadful note-taker. I’d take down a few bits about what I needed to know, and the rest of my many pages were filled with doodles.
And monstrous doodles they were. Corpulent masses of fine-grain squiggles depicting everything and nothing. The page looked like an octopus got caught in a typewriter; the inky entanglement chewed up and spat out by a massive set of jaws – rings, springs, and all.
I found them rather beautiful.
To be honest, I’m often temped to keep old notebooks. Partly for the notes. But largely for the doodles.