Pedro Páramo

by Juan Rulfo

we walked side by side so close together our shoulders were almost touching.

—I’m also one of Pedro Páramo’s sons —he told me. A flock of crows passed overhead through an empty sky, crying caw, caw, caw.

—Who is he? —I inquired again. —Bitterness incarnate —he answered.

in a clay pot full of herbs: lemon balm leaves, castilla blossoms, twigs of rue.

She said portraits were a form of witchcraft. And it seemed she was right, because hers was full of holes, like pinpricks, with one large enough to fit your middle finger through located right where her heart should be.

When the black walls still reflect the yellow light of the sun.

Hollow footsteps, echoing off walls tinged by the light of the setting sun.

although there were no children playing, nor doves, nor rooftops shaded blue, I felt that the town was alive. And that if all I heard was silence, it was because I hadn’t yet grown accustomed to the silence. Maybe because my head was still full of sounds and voices. Yes, filled with voices. And here, with the air so thin, they were easier to hear. They settled inside you, heavy. I remembered what my mother had told me: “You’ll hear me better there. I’ll be closer to you. You’ll find the voice of my memories closer to you there than that of my death,

You must be tired, and sleep is a good mattress for fatigue.

Your mother was so pretty, or rather so sweet,

No one knows better than I do just how far we are from Heaven, but I also know a shortcut. God willing, it’s about dying at a time of your own choosing rather than according to His time.

It felt as if I were in a strange land, and I just let myself be dragged along.

My body seemed to be floating, and then it gave way, and with its moorings let loose, anyone could’ve played with it as if it were a bundle of rags.

WATER DRIPPING FROM the roof tiles was making a hole in the sand of the patio. It sounded: drip, drip, and then again drip as it landed on a laurel leaf that bounced around while staying stuck in a crack between the bricks.

An occasional breeze would shake the leaves of the pomegranate tree, making them shed a heavy rain whose shimmering drops left a pattern on the ground before turning to mist.

the sun threw its light on the rocks making them shimmer with color; it drank the water from the earth and made the leaves shine as they played in the gentle wind.

His mother stood in the doorway, a candle in her hand. Her long shadow stretched toward the ceiling, unfurled, while the rafters pushed it back, breaking it into fragments.

The church clock rang out the hours, one after another, one after another, as if time had contracted.

your mother had gentle eyes. If anything about her was pretty, it was those eyes.

Green fields. Seeing the horizon rise and fall as the wheat sways in the wind, the afternoon rippling as it is battered by the rain. The color of the earth, the scent of alfalfa and bread. A town that smells of spilled honey

The cats would rouse with the smell of burning wood. She’d scamper here and there, lorded over by that clowder of cats.

And even though she was no stranger to hardship, those gentle eyes of hers finally went numb.

. . And everything tastes like orange blossoms wrapped in the warmth of the season.”

He recognizes the sound of the voice. He tries to imagine who it belongs to, but his body goes limp, and he drifts back to sleep, crushed by the weight of his slumber. Hands tug at the blankets and draw them close while beneath their warmth a body hides from the world in search of peace.

It was raining stars.

He felt the weight of the night as it covered the earth. The earth, “this vale of tears.”

everything was completely quiet, the only sound a moth falling through the air and the whispering of silence.

I hear the dogs howling, and I just let them howl. And on blustery days you see the wind as it blows the leaves here and there, even when it’s easy to see there aren’t any trees around these parts. There must’ve been at some point. Otherwise, where would all the leaves have come from?

Each sigh is like a sip of life that slowly gets away from us.

Now and then I heard the sound of words, and I noticed a difference. Because the words I had heard up to that moment, as I was beginning to understand, had no sound, they were silent. You could feel them, but they made no sound, like words you hear in a dream.

Nights around here are filled with shadows. If only you could see the horde of souls that roam the streets. They come out as soon as it gets dark, and we’re all afraid of seeing them. With so many of them and so few of us we no longer plead for them to be freed from their torment. There just aren’t enough prayers to go around.

«You’ll find my sanctuary there. The place I most loved. Where I grew dizzy from an abundance of hopes and dreams. My town, rising from the plain. Filled with trees and leaves, like a chest where we’ve stored our memories. You’ll understand why someone there might want to live forever. Dawn, morning, midday, and night, always the same, except for changes in the air. The air alters the color of things, breezes refresh your soul as if life were a passing murmur, as if it were nothing more than a soft murmuring . . .»

—It feels as if someone were walking on top of us. —It’s time to stop being terrified. No one can scare you anymore. Try to think pleasant thoughts, seeing as we’re going to be buried a long while here in the ground.

AT DAWN, THICK DROPS of rain fell over the earth. They made a hollow sound as they hit against the soft, loose dirt of the furrows. A mockingbird flew

as soon as it began to rain everything would fill with light and the verdant smell of new growth. She talked about how the clouds would roll in, about how they would toss themselves to the ground, shattering the earth and changing its colors

The sky is so far up there,

I was content just knowing where the ground was.

And it took off. I felt it when the delicate thread of blood that still joined it to my heart dropped into my hands.

He never liked reliving that memory since it brought on others, as if he had torn a hole in a bag full of grain and was struggling to hold back the contents.

still pools of water that reflected the light of stars falling from the heavens.

He would’ve liked to have answered: “Me, I’m the one who’s died.”

I would love to believe your congregants are all still believers, but it’s not you who keeps their faith alive. They do that on their own, through superstition and fear.

I can’t recall what it’s like to taste something sweet.

In those days, I slept beside her, in the tiny space she’d open for me between her arms.

February, when the mornings were full of wind, sparrows, and bluish light. I remember.

I wanted to run to you. To wrap you in joy.

a person could take pleasure in watching all the things that would spring to life: the clouds, the birds, the moss. Do you remember?

A dim light, a light where the heart should be, in the shape of a tiny heart throbbing like a flickering flame.

My pain is tucked away somewhere safe.

The only way I like to swim in the sea is naked