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“That town sits on the coals of the earth, at the very mouth of hell. They say that when people from there go to hell, they come back for a blanket.”
―
―
“This town is filled with echoes. It's like they were trapped behind the walls, or beneath the cobblestones. When you walk you feel like someone's behind you, stepping in your footsteps.”
― Pedro Páramo
― Pedro Páramo
“The sky was filled with fat stars, swollen from the long night. The moon had risen briefly and then slipped out of sight. It was one of those sad moons that no one looks at or pays attention to. It had hung there a while, misshapen, not shedding any light, and then gone to hide behind the hills.”
― Pedro Páramo
― Pedro Páramo
“This world presses in on us from every side; it scatters fistfuls of our dust across the land
and takes bits and pieces of us as if to water the earth with our blood. What did we do? Why
have our souls rotted away?”
―
and takes bits and pieces of us as if to water the earth with our blood. What did we do? Why
have our souls rotted away?”
―
“I am lying in the same bed where my mother died so long ago; on the same mattress,
beneath the same black wool coverlet she wrapped us in to sleep. I slept beside her, her
little girl, in the special place she made for me in her arms.
I think I can still feel the calm rhythm of her breathing; the palpitations and sighs that
soothed my sleep. . . . I think I feel the pain of her death. . . . But that isn't true.
Here I lie, flat on my back, hoping to forget my loneliness by remembering those times.
Because I am not here just for a while. And I am not in my mother's bed but in a black box
like the ones for burying the dead. Because I am dead.
I sense where I am, but I can think. . .”
― Pedro Páramo
beneath the same black wool coverlet she wrapped us in to sleep. I slept beside her, her
little girl, in the special place she made for me in her arms.
I think I can still feel the calm rhythm of her breathing; the palpitations and sighs that
soothed my sleep. . . . I think I feel the pain of her death. . . . But that isn't true.
Here I lie, flat on my back, hoping to forget my loneliness by remembering those times.
Because I am not here just for a while. And I am not in my mother's bed but in a black box
like the ones for burying the dead. Because I am dead.
I sense where I am, but I can think. . .”
― Pedro Páramo
Christopher’s 2025 Year in Books
Take a look at Christopher’s Year in Books, including some fun facts about their reading.
421 books
|
68 friends
12 books
|
329 friends
251 books
|
789 friends
236 books
|
3,483 friends
337 books
|
815 friends
54 books
|
18 friends
48 books
|
224 friends
2 books
|
13 friends
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