I was so excited to begin Pedro Páramo this week. I decided to amend my contract and add it as a text last minute and I’m so glad I did. I knew I was in for a treat when the librarian at Vancouver Public Library in Kits stopped me to gush over the book as I was checking out.

To be honest, by the time I sat down to start reading, I had completely forgotten about Jon’s spoiler alert in last week’s class (paraphrasing: everyone in the text is dead) and I found myself truly haunted by the unfolding of the story. Undoubtedly the most representative quality of magical realism is its nonchalance; the muted, ordinary way in which it describes the surreal and extraordinary. This is definitely my favorite part of the genre – the way it casually unsettles you. This was the feeling I had while reading the text, uncovering more and more about this “ghost” village. It felt almost haunting discovering each new dead character and the apparently thin relationship between life and death itself. 

It was both unsettling and amusing to take in. In particular, I liked this quote towards the beginning of the text, which reflects both the absurd and morbid nature of the people’s relationship to dying: “So, she got a head start on me, eh? Well, you can be sure I’ll catch up with her. No one knows better than I do how far heaven is, but I also know all the shortcuts” (23). The aloofness of Doña Eduviges’ speech almost reminded me of the cadence and timing of a horror movie monologue. There were many instances like this that inspired amusement, but could also be somewhat chilling in their content and blunt delivery.

Rulfo’s narrative power was especially evident in descriptions of intense emotion. For instance, I found myself returning to this line in particular over several days: “And inside, the woman standing in the doorway, her body impeding the arrival of day: through her arms he glimpsed pieces of sky and, beneath her feet, trickles of light. A damp light, as if the floor beneath the woman were flooded with tears” (37). This depiction is pure imagination and yet can be visualized so viscerally. It captures the deep anguish and denial felt at the beginning of grief and it’s just breathtaking to read.

The entire book read like a dream, which felt at times like a bizarre nightmare. The narration flowed seamlessly across different times, narrators, memories, and states of reality. This stream-of-consciousness style accompanied by the magical realism descriptions made the entire text feel like long, hazy dream – beautiful and transcendent but difficult to root in real time and reality. I can’t articulate here how much I enjoyed the dreamy journey Rulfo led me down and I’m excited to return to Pedro Páramo one day in the future.

Question for discussion: How did you experience the “chorus” of narrators in the book? Did you find it “loud” in a sense or confusing? Or did you enjoy the layered voices and varied perspectives offered on the town and its people?