Pedro Paramo

Hope brought me here."

"Hope? You pay dear for that. My illusions made me live longer than I should have.

He never liked to relive that memory because it brought others with it, as if a bulging sack of grain had burst and he was trying to keep the kernels from spilling out.

Later the two of them had strolled through the azalea-shaded cloister of the parish patio. They sat beneath an arbor where grapes were ripening.

"They're bitter, Father," the priest anticipated Father Renteria's question. "We live in a land in which everything grows, thanks to God's providence; but everything that grows is bitter. Tha

None of us still living is in God's grace. We can't lift up our eyes, because they're filled with shame. And shame doesn't help.

He stopped talking then. He said there wasn't much point in saying things he couldn't hear, things that evaporated in the air, things he couldn't get the taste of.

Father Renteria picked up the coins, one by one, and walked to the altar.

"These are Yours," he said. "He can afford to buy salvation. Only you know whether this is the price. As for me, Lord, I throw myself at your feet to ask for the justice or injustice that any of us may ask ...For my part, I hope you damn him to hell."

And he

And though there were no children playing, no doves, no blue-shadowed roof tiles, I felt that the town was alive. And that if I heard only silence, it was because I was not yet accustomed to silence - maybe because my head was still filled with sounds and voices.

"I'm suspicious of my own shadow.

Empty carts, churning the silence of the streets. Fading into the dark road of night. And shadows. The echo of shadows.