Pedro Paramo Reviewed By Juan Rulfo’s Neighbours
Fulgor has died. His death is a tragedy to some, to others it is mystery. “Fulgor died,” the old man tells me, “lying on his back, one arm on the hip.” His old woman, who sits cut to a corner, sucking on her steel hookah, interrupts, “Fulgor died with his face on the ground, his right leg was up in mid air.” Their son has just returned, he thinks of the death: “Poor Fulgor, he thought he could run faster.” He wants to continue, but, in the middle he pants, his wife brings him water. Twenty-six and nubile, and so I listen to her, “for a minute Fulgor was up in the air. We waited and wondered how he would fall.” She has bitten her fingernails, she isn’t lying. They all tell me they were disappointed, “his right leg was up and it wasn’t the other way round.”