Juan Rulfo’s “Pedro Páramo”: My Thoughts on a Haunting Mexican Classic

I first learned about Juan Rulfo from Gabriel García Márquez’s interviews, where he credited “Pedro Páramo” with inspiring “One Hundred Years of Solitude.”

That’s the kind of endorsement that made me pick Rulfo's book right away.

Rulfo, born in 1917 in rural Jalisco, Mexico, faced hard times early on, including the Cristero War that hit his family.

He wrote sparingly, but left a big mark.

By day, he sold tires, handled immigration paperwork, and photographed Mexico’s stark landscapes.

His output stayed small, and he passed in 1986 from lung problems linked to smoking.

(At the end of this post there’s more about the author, but right now let’s talk about “Pedro Páramo”)

Unpacking the Plot of “Pedro Páramo”

Published in 1955, “Pedro Páramo” centers on Juan Preciado traveling to Comala after his mother’s deathbed wish: find your father, Pedro Páramo, and make him pay up.

But Comala is a ghost town—deserted roads, ruined homes, silence broken only by whispers.

Juan encounters people who are actually spirits, sharing fragments of the past.

The narrative weaves in Pedro’s backstory: a cunning landowner who built an empire through shady deals, murders, and control.

His greed drains the life from Comala, leaving it cursed.

The book is brief, around 120 pages, but packed with overlapping tales that turn the dry, oppressive heat into a symbol of trapped souls.

Blending Kafka’s Traps with García Márquez’s Mysteries

“Pedro Páramo” mixes Kafka’s sense of inescapable absurdity with García Márquez’s rural enigmas, but in a stripped-back way.

Kafka’s influence shows in the disorientation—Juan steps into a place where reality unravels, much like characters in “The Castle” facing endless barriers.

No one explains the rules; the dead mingle with the living, and Juan’s simple quest spirals into confusion.

It’s that feeling of being caught in an illogical web, but here it’s personal regrets rather than faceless systems.

The town itself acts like a labyrinth, pulling Juan deeper without escape routes.

García Márquez adds the supernatural layer, though Rulfo pioneered it—ghosts appear without fanfare, chatting about old grievances like they’re still alive.

It’s akin to Macondo’s casual miracles, but harsher: no colorful rains, just dusty echoes of pain.

Pedro’s dominance mirrors Kafka’s distant powers, enforcing whims that crush lives, while his family’s downfall carries García Márquez’s curse-like inevitability.

Miguel’s early death, for example, starts the rot, spreading like a family hex.

This fusion creates a tense atmosphere: Kafka’s isolation in a sun-baked setting, García Márquez’s folklore without the warmth.

Pedro manipulates revolutionaries by bribing them away, echoing Kafka’s futile negotiations, but the aftermath feels like García Márquez’s generational echoes, where sins linger.

Rulfo sets it apart by rooting everything in his Jalisco experiences—post-revolution land struggles, Catholic guilt, rural decay.

Kafka feels urban and cold, García Márquez lush and ironic, but Rulfo’s is arid and direct, making the blend feel authentic to Mexican history.

The result is a book that traps you intellectually while hitting emotionally, questioning power and memory in ways that stick long after.

How the Story Unfolds Through Fragments and Voices

Rulfo skips linear timelines, jumping between eras and perspectives without signals.

Juan’s journey kicks off, but interruptions come fast: a host revealing her own death, a buried voice complaining.

No numbered chapters—just breaks, like pauses in conversation.

This mirrors fragmented memories, forcing you to assemble the puzzle.

Pedro emerges not through one narrative but scattered complaints—workers he cheated, women he used, rivals he eliminated.

It’s chaotic initially, but builds a fuller picture of his tyranny.

The chorus of voices enriches it: each spirit adds a piece, from Father Rentería’s guilty confessions to anonymous murmurs.

Susana San Juan’s feverish recollections stand out, blending love and delusion.

This technique shows how one life affects many, turning individual stories into a town’s lament.

Digging into Death, Power, and Regret

Death permeates the book, not as horror but everyday reality.

Comala’s residents don’t realize or care they’re gone, continuing grudges underground.

Juan overhears graveside chats, blending life and limbo.

It’s about enduring pain beyond the grave, with no peace for the wicked or innocent.

Power corrupts this—Pedro rises from nothing, amassing land by force, but his control breeds emptiness.

He fixes droughts by deals, but when Susana dies, he lets everything collapse, starving the town.

Themes connect: unchecked authority leads to communal death, spiritual and literal.

Catholic undertones run through—unabsolved sins, failed priests—but Rulfo critiques faith’s failures.

Rentería sells indulgences, questions divine justice, reflecting Mexico’s turbulent church-state history.

Regret ties it: characters replay mistakes, stuck in loops.

Pedro’s late mutterings reveal his hollow victory, power stripping meaning.

The book probes rural Mexico’s scars—revolution’s unkept promises, caciques’ reigns—using ghosts to symbolize unresolved pasts.

Death isn’t closure; it’s amplification of earthly wrongs.

Standout Moments That Stuck With Me

Several scenes linger for their subtle impact.

Juan’s entry into Comala builds dread quietly

He asks directions from a mule driver who’s Pedro’s son, Abundio, already spectral.

The heat oppresses, hints drop slowly: “Comala is a hot place.”

It sets unease without rush, drawing you in like the town pulls Juan.

It is really amazing how Rulfo mirrors real disorientation, and makes the shift to supernatural seamless.

Susana’s bedside rants captivate

Obsessed with her dead husband, she ignores Pedro, dreaming of oceans in a landlocked hell.

Her lines are poetic: “I see the sea, blue and endless.”

Amid stark prose, this offers beauty, but it’s tragic—Pedro’s love imprisons her, driving madness.

I appreciate how it humanizes him slightly, showing vulnerability, yet underscores destruction.

Her death scene, with bells tolling endlessly, marks the town’s turning point, blending grief and chaos.

Pedro bribing Cristero rebels shows his savvy

Pedro hosts them, pays off, avoids fight. But alone later, he crumbles: “Everything is falling apart.”

The contrast from ruler to ruin hits hard, exposing power’s fragility. Favorite for revealing character depths without sympathy.

Finally, Juan suffocating in a grave, voices dimming abrupt, no tidy end.

It echoes the book’s refusal to resolve, leaving you with silence.

These moments shine in Juan Rulfo’s minimalism: sparse words evoke vast emotions.

Additional Layers in Setting and Characters

The Jalisco backdrop amplifies isolation—barren hills, relentless sun, mirroring inner barrenness.

Sounds matter: wind howls, murmurs rise, silence weighs.

Women bear heavy loads—Dolores abandoned, Dorotea childless—critiquing gender roles in macho culture. Flickers of kindness, like Eduviges sheltering strays, get overshadowed by despair.

Themes expand to abandonment: by family, society, God. Prayers go unheard, heavens empty, drawing from Rulfo’s war losses.

Lasting Echoes and Versions

Rulfo sparked magical realism’s boom.

Gabriel García Márquez rewrote his novel after reading it.

Writers like Fuentes and Vargas Llosa adopted its fragmented style for Latin American stories.

In Mexico, it reframed rural narratives, highlighting forgotten voices.

The 1967 film adaptation uses black-and-white to capture desolation, while plays emphasize choral elements.

Rulfo’s photos—empty villages, weathered faces—parallel the book’s visuals, influencing how we see his work.

Reflecting on Rulfo’s Path

Rulfo stayed out of the limelight, content with little output. Losing parents young, he dove into books in a relative’s library, honing brevity. His photos captured Mexico’s soul—harsh yet poignant—like his writing. He quit fiction mid-career, feeling done, focusing on editing and family.

Global recognition came late via translations. García Márquez led many here, but Rulfo stands alone—raw power in few pages. His story reminds how personal hardship crafts timeless tales.

Give this a thoughtful read; the structure challenges but pays off.

Try it with Rulfo’s stories or García Márquez to trace connections.

It reshapes views on history’s ghosts.