Dreams are like stars, when we observe them we see an ancient world.
After enduring the midday heat—the “Hour of Zarathustra,” when even the shadows are hidden—the afternoon becomes a eulogy to freshness, a pleasant sigh among the various new releases on the shelves of Tecnilibros.
I am here, trying to let temperance hide my desire to read everything, or almost everything... because, like Borges, always "memorious" against forgetting, I remember what Gustave Flaubert, as a consolation, used to say: "You have to read the bad and the sublime, not the mediocre."
The biographies, philosophy, mysticism, astronomy, and other sections have their niche on the second floor of the premises—an elegant bookstore, with a diverse editorial offering and subscribed as the representative of Ensenada—and I go there when the comfort of a certain height—a few steps towards the stars—requires me to observe the bookish production of science and its dissemination.
This is an observation by Vincent van Gogh, the Dutch painter who—like the ancient Pensiderals (thinkers of the sky)—also made the night his oracle.
I take the book with me, start reading it on the go; I put it down, pick up other titles impatiently—"The Cosmos" by Manuel Toharia or "Dark Entities" by Cristiano Galbiati—; I pick it up again, enjoy it, comment on it...
I would like to say—subscribing a little to Ken Wilber—that Joaquín Bohigas Bosch's book, “The Discovery of the Stars” (2020), is a brief history of all “causes.”
