His notebooks were a balm against the howl of the internet. He did not understand how the world had become so interlinked, how all its information could live on a screen. It felt like an optical illusion, a bit of cheap sleight-of-hand. Information was supposed to be earned through effort, luck, and scribbling into your notepad. It required engagement, and my father craved the human contact needed to get it. The sales clerks would check their stock and make calls to other locations for a linen drum lampshade or a pair of loafers with tassels. He’d eventually find the item but would not purchase it, deciding he didn’t need it after all.