Christopher

“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?”
― Juan Rulfo

“Nothing can last forever. There isn't any memory, no matter how intense, that doesn't fade out at last.”
― Juan Rulfo

“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. . .”
― Juan Rulfo, Pedro Páramo

“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.”
― Juan Rulfo