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Original Title:	Pedro Páramo
ISBN:	0802133908 (ISBN13: 9780802133908)
Edition Language:	English
Characters:	Juan Preciado
Setting:	Comala(Mexico)

Pedro Páramo

Juan Rulfo

Paperback | Pages: 128 pages

Rating: 4.05 | 37646 Users | 2757 Reviews

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Title	:	Pedro Páramo
Author	:	Juan Rulfo
Book Format	:	Paperback
Book Edition	:	Reprint Edition
Pages	:	Pages: 128 pages
Published	:	March 10th 1994 by Grove Press (first published March 19th 1955)
Categories	:	Fiction. Classics. Magical Realism. European Literature. Spanish Literature. Cultural. Latin American

Narration To Books Pedro Páramo

A classic of Mexican modern literature about a haunted village.

As one enters Juan Rulfo's legendary novel, one follows a dusty road to a town of death. Time shifts from one consciousness to another in a hypnotic flow of dreams, desires, and memories, a world of ghosts dominated by the figure of Pedro Páramo - lover, overlord, murderer.

Rulfo's extraordinary mix of sensory images, violent passions, and unfathomable mysteries has been a profound influence on a whole generation of Latin American writers, including Carlos Fuentes, Mario Vargas Llosa, and Gabriel García Márquez. To read Pedro Páramo today is as overwhelming an experience as when it was first published in Mexico back in 1955.

Rating Regarding Books Pedro Páramo

Ratings: 4.05 From 37646 Users | 2757 Reviews

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Enough is written elsewhere to give you a good sense of the novella. Theres equally enough written elsewhere which speaks to this books foundational status with regard to magical realism. If asked, Id only say Pedro Páramo is Our Town as conceived by Rod Serling and written by William Faulkner. Helpful? Its great to be able to say this book was recommended to me by Roberto Bolañopartly because its true, partly because its exciting to have a great author make recommendations that speak to you,

I keep trying to write something about it - because it was such a beautiful read. But it is hard to say anything about something so poetic. I loved the book - it takes you to such a different world, and through a web of living memories.

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. Juan Rulfo ~~ Pedro PáramoThere are few books that leave me speechless when turning the lasting page. Pedro Paramo was one such book. Pedro Paramo may also be the scariest ghost story ever written.Author

A masterpiece - ambience, emptiness, sounds and silences, glow... Reminded me "Stalker" by Tarkovsky, only in a written form. The main character is Land, Earth, Slowly Sipping Eternity.Marquez has totally acknowledged its influence over One Hundred Years of Solitude. But his book is a popcorn compared to this one. My edition comes with the forward by Marquez and a short but wonderful essay by Sontag at the end. This is the book to treasure and read more than once.

The sun was tumbling over things, giving them form once again. The ruined, sterile earth lay before him.There are passages of Juan Rulfos exquisite Pedro Páramo that I want to cut out and hang upon my walls like a valuable painting. Because that is what this novel is, a purely beautiful surrealistic painting of a hellish Mexico where words are the brushstrokes and the ghastly, ghostly tone is the color palate. Rulfos short tale is an utter masterpiece, and the forerunner of magical realisma dark

The blurb on the back of this book states that Rulfos style is what would come to be known as magical realism. To me, it read as a ghost story: a journey into a ghost town, literally populated with ghosts. The story of the town is passed on, like a baton in a relay race, from one dead to another: Each recognizes the other is dead, but some seem slow to realize they are too.I read this alongside Hamsuns Growth of the Soil (which Im still reading) and while its of a different time period (and

and when the rains pour incessantly,the dead within their graves shift uncomfortably.A little of them seeps into the water,a lot of that water we drink, many years after.And with gentle steps we tread those cemeteries,and with surprise we wonder, why the dead have always been expecting us.With her warm embrace she holds me within her grave,whispering in my ears about the madness with which she sought me through her living years.And though now I am here among the dead, I still find myself a