I’m enjoying Ramón Eder’s aphorisms again. A few months ago, I read Lonely Palms (Renacimiento, 2024), and now I read The Stars Are the Aphorisms of the Sky (Renacimiento, 2024). They’re a surefire find. Ramón Eder—in the wake of the gaucho Martín Fierro—writes (and sings) about fundamental matters. These aren’t “light” aphorisms, mere wordplay with nothing to say. Eder has carefully meditated on each of his aphorisms and enlightens the reader with his wit, wisdom, and good humor. As a good aphorist, Eder is “a kind of mixture of a philosopher without a system, a laconic poet, and a consummate humorist” (p. 112). The flashes of his thought leave a good taste in the mouth, more than a smile, and are reasons to engage in dialogue with him, agreeing with what he proposes or politely disagreeing with some of his sayings.

He recommends reading poetry to learn to read between the lines in any narrative text, because good literature, like an aphorism passed through the crucible of time, leaves the reader on the threshold of revelation (see p. 98). Read and, above all, reread, pause, and return to the text in search of new Mediterraneans. In such a way that, just as the stars are visible on clear-sky nights, each reader feels comfortable with the type of reading their soul requires at that moment and selects the lines that most appeal to their intelligence and heart. I think, for example, of the two volumes that Robert Spaemann dedicated to Meditate on the Psalms. He said of the verse, “Keep me like the apple of your eye, shelter me in the shadow of your wings (Psalm 17:8),” that it “is the most beautiful prayer for protection there is.” Of course, I love it, and it comforts me, too. And, certainly, good literature, like the psalms, has good music, which is why Eder suggests that “when we read aloud, which is highly recommended, we should choose texts from writers with a good ear to also enjoy the music of the language (p. 59).”

The aphorism: “On inner journeys, one can also go to Ithaca” (p. 108) made me think. In the Odyssey, Odysseus returns to his home, where Penelope and his son Telemachus, among others, are. But there are also those other journeys that are not about translation and are only—at most—about rotation or simply being alone to reconnect with oneself. It is the journey to the depths of oneself to rediscover the narrative thread of one’s own life. A solitude in which, in the words of Manuel García Morente, we seek the deepest reality of our being in order to find salvation, examining ourselves to delve again into that “know thyself” of the Oracle of Delphi. Knowledge that never ends, and from time to time, we must undertake this inner journey to find ourselves again.

Eder is a self-confessed Chestertonian. In Lonely Palms, he wrote that “Chesterton’s books are Catholic taverns where joy reigns” (p. 20). And in the book I’m reviewing, he says: “Sometimes I reread something by Chesterton because I realize I need Chestertonin” (p. 20). I fully share this assertion by the author. Chesterton exudes joy; there is no bad mood or bitterness. It’s good for me to intersperse a few doses of Chestertonin into my readings to refresh my soul.

I conclude with an encouraging note. Aphorism: “If we can have a moment of happiness every day, we will be happy every day of our lives, even if it’s just for a little while.” A few drops of honey are enough to sweeten life, small moments of happiness that we receive or that, even when we are in pain or in our soul, we can give to our neighbor, as the song Fisher of Men says: “my tiredness that rests others.”