Pedro Páramo interweaves multiple stories set in the small Mexican town of Comala. In one, Pedro Páramo gradually amasses power until he owns the whole town and fathers everyone born there. In a second story, Pedro’s childhood sweetheart, Susana San Juan, returns to Comala to marry him but lives out her final days bedridden and locked in her room. Many years later, in the novel’s main frame story, Juan Preciado visits Comala after his dying mother, Dolores, asks him to track down his father, Pedro Páramo. Although he’s initially hopeful, Juan finds Comala full of its former residents’ ghosts, wandering endlessly in a kind of purgatory, without any hope for salvation. Eventually, Juan himself dies and becomes one of these ghosts. In Pedro Páramo, hope is a futile form of self-deception that ultimately leads to despair: it gives people a false sense of meaning, when in reality life and death are meaningless. Accordingly, for Juan Rulfo, human beings are stuck in a tragic dilemma with no right answer. They can strive for the impossible, despite the inevitability of failure and death, or they can accept the universe’s meaninglessness and moral disorder.
The novel’s characters fall into despair because their hopes—which represent the sense of meaning and purpose they feel in life—are inevitably dashed. This is particularly true of Rulfo’s three protagonists. Juan Preciado goes to Comala because he “build[s] a world around a hope centered on the man called Pedro Páramo.” But Pedro is dead and Juan cannot claim his inheritance, so this world gets totally destroyed and he ends up with nothing to live for. Similarly, Pedro lives in a fantasy world, amassing land and power to try and woo Susana. When they finally marry, Susana appears to be incapacitated by some unexplained trauma. But privately, she is dreaming of a freedom she knows she will never achieve. Both Pedro and Susana live in service of a single hope—Pedro wants a blissful marriage with Susana, and Susana wants to live on her own terms. Pedro and Susana fail to achieve their conflicting hopes for reasons outside their control. Susana cuts herself off from the world until she dies, which dashes Pedro’s hopes and leads him to do the same. He lives out his days sitting in his chair, frozen in despair. Ultimately, Juan, Pedro, and Susana’s worlds all come crashing down when they realize that their fundamental hopes are unfulfillable.
Having long ago undergone the same process, the people of Comala live in a kind of permanent despair that illustrates the dangers of false hope. For instance, Eduviges Dyada spent her whole life trying to marry and mother children for the men of Comala, but all of them turned their backs on her, and she committed suicide out of despair. In the afterlife, she wanders around Comala endlessly with other lost souls who both recognize that they need prayers if they want to make it to heaven and harbor no illusions about ever getting there. If Juan, Pedro, and Susana’s failures show that hope is a short-lived illusion that inevitably leads to disappointment, then the wandering lost souls of Comala’s townspeople show that this disappointment is permanent and torturous.
Rulfo specifically implies that hope is futile because death is meaningless and random: it has no moral purpose in the universe. While the novel’s characters try to give meaning to death, just like they give meaning to life through hope, this always fails. For instance, Dolores Preciado dies without avenging Pedro Páramo’s theft of her property. And though Juan visits Comala to avenge it for her, he achieves nothing except his own death. He tries to restore the moral order of the universe, only to discover that there is no such order.
More frequently, the novel’s characters try to make death meaningful through religion. But Comala’s priest, Father Rentería, saves the souls of immoral people who pay him—like the murderer and rapist Miguel Páramo—instead of morally pure and well-meaning people like Eduviges and Dorotea, who have no money. Rentería promises that the afterlife will make up for the injustices these women experience, meaning that death will redeem life and restore the moral order of the universe. But ultimately, it doesn’t: the evil make it to heaven and the benevolent get stuck in the purgatory of Comala, “sits […] at the very mouth of hell.” Dorotea and Eduviges die randomly, inexplicably, and meaninglessly. Feeling cheated and devastated, their spirits wander Comala eternally in despair. In fact, many characters die specifically because of despair—Juan, Pedro, Susana, Eduviges, and Dorotea all give up on life when their hopes are dashed and then die shortly thereafter. Juan even reports sighing and sadness as his mother’s cause of death. False hope leads the novel’s characters to disappointment, meaningless, and death, but the alternative is no better: eschewing hope from the start would mean accepting the meaninglessness of life and accomplishing nothing. (This would leave people like Pedro Páramo, who sits paralyzed in his chair for years, or the lost souls who wander Comala eternally.)
After dying, Juan Preciado tells Dorotea that “hope brought me here.” She responds, “Hope? You pay dear for that.” Here, “hope” is not the common Spanish word esperanza, but rather the more literary ilusión, which refers to an impossible, false hope based on misperception and misjudgment. In a sense, Rulfo sees all hope as ilusión: all human beings die with their goals at least partially unfulfilled. Death does not provide a meaningful closure to life, like in (most) literature and movies; rather, it just happens, leaving people’s hopes unfulfilled and their life projects incomplete. The only way to live without risking disappointment is to accept this fact—and yet life without hope is stagnant and pointless. Rulfo thus suggests that everyone is doomed live out the same tragic pattern of hope, failure, and accepting despair.
Death, Hope, and Despair ThemeTracker
Death, Hope, and Despair Quotes in Pedro Páramo
I came to Comala because I had been told that my father, a man named Pedro Páramo, lived there. It was my mother who told me. And I had promised her that after she died I would go see him. I squeezed her hands as a sign I would do it. She was near death, and I would have promised her anything. “Don’t fail to go see him,” she had insisted. “Some call him one thing, some another. I’m sure he will want to know you.” At the time all I could do was tell her I would do what she asked, and from promising so often I kept repeating the promise even after I had pulled my hands free of her death grip.
Still earlier she had told me: “Don’t ask him for anything. Just what’s ours. What he should have given me but never did… Make him pay, son, for all those years he put us out of his mind.”
I had expected to see the town of my mother’s memories, of her nostalgia—nostalgia laced with sighs. She had lived her lifetime sighing about Comala, about going back. But she never had. Now I had come in her place. I was seeing things through her eyes, as she had seen them. She had given me her eyes to see. Just as you pass the gate of Los Colimotes there’s a beautiful view of a green plain tinged with the yellow of ripe corn. From there you can see Comala, turning the earth white, and lighting it at night. Her voice was secret, muffled, as if she were talking to herself… Mother.
“It’s hot here,” I said.
“You might say. But this is nothing,” my companion replied. “Try to take it easy. You’ll feel it even more when we get to Comala. That town sits on the coals of the earth, at the very mouth of hell. They say that when people from there die and go to hell, they come back for a blanket.”
“Do you know Pedro Páramo?” I asked.
I felt I could ask because I had seen a glimmer of goodwill in his eyes.
“Who is he?” I pressed him.
“Living bile,” was his reply.
And he lowered his stick against the burros for no reason at all, because they had been far ahead of us, guided by the descending trail.
Hundreds of meters above the clouds, far, far above everything, you are hiding, Susana. Hiding in God’s immensity, behind His Divine Providence where I cannot touch you or see you, and where my words cannot reach you.
“Look at my face!”
It was an ordinary face.
“What is it you want me to see?”
“Don’t you see my sin? Don’t you see those purplish spots? Like impetigo? I’m covered with them. And that’s only on the outside; inside, I’m a sea of mud.”
“Yes, Dorotea. The murmuring killed me. I was trying to hold back my fear. But it kept building until I couldn’t contain it any longer. And when I was face to face with the murmuring, the dam burst.
“I went to the plaza. You’re right about that. I was drawn there by the sound of people; I thought there really were people. I wasn’t in my right mind by then. I remember I got there by feeling my way along the walls as if I were walking with my hands. And the walls seemed to distill the voices, they seemed to be filtering through the cracks and crumbling mortar. I heard them. Human voices: not clear, but secretive voices that seemed to be whispering something to me as I passed, like a buzzing in my ears.”
“Why did you come here?”
“I told you that at the very beginning. I came to find Pedro Páramo, who they say was my father. Hope brought me here.”
“Hope? You pay dear for that. My illusions made me live longer than I should have. And that was the price I paid to find my son, who in a manner of speaking was just one more illusion. Because I never had a son.”
“I went back. I would always go back. The sea bathes my ankles and retreats, it bathes my knees, my thighs; it puts its gentle arm around my waist, circles my breasts, embraces my throat, presses my shoulders. Then I sink into it, my whole body, I give myself to is pulsing strength, to is gentle possession, holding nothing back.
“‘I love to swim in the sea,’ I told him.
“But he didn’t understand.
“And the next morning I was again in the sea, purifying myself. Giving myself to the waves.”
People began arriving from other places, drawn by the endless pealing. They came from Contla, as if on a pilgrimage. And even farther. A circus showed up, who knows from where, with a whirligig and flying chairs. And musicians. First they came as if they were onlookers, but after a while they settled in and even played concerts. And so, little by little, the event turned into a fiesta. Comala was bustling with people, boisterous and noisy, just like the feast days when it was nearly impossible to move through the village.
The bells fell silent, but the fiesta continued. There was no way to convince people that this was an occasion for mourning. Nor was there any way to get them to leave. Just the opposite, more kept arriving.
[…]
Don Pedro spoke to no one. He never left his room. He swore to wreak vengeance on Comala:
“I will cross my arms and Comala will die of hunger.”
And that was what happened.
“I need money to bury my wife,” he said. “Can you help me?”
Damiana Cisneros prayed: “Deliver us, O God, from the snares of the Devil.” And she thrust her hands toward Abundio, making the sign of the cross.
Abundio Martinez saw a frightened woman standing before him, making a cross; he shuddered. He was afraid that the Devil might have followed him there, and he looked back, expecting to see Satan in some terrible guise.
He tried to raise his hand to wipe the image clear, but it clung to his legs like a magnet. He tried to lift the other hand, but it slipped slowly down his side until it touched the floor, a crutch supporting his boneless shoulder.
“This is death,” he thought.
[…]
Pedro Páramo replied:
“I’m coming along. I’m coming.”
He supported himself on Damiana Cisneros’s arm and tried to walk. After a few steps he fell; inside, he was begging for help, but no words were audible. He fell to the ground with a thud, and lay there, collapsed like a pile of rocks.