I bought Pedro Paramo in Mexico, as one does. I started reading it with a Mexican voice. Slowly faded in a Spanish one when I came back home. What a pity that I couldn’t hold it for longer. Maybe I should read it again when I’m back in Mexico.
They are all dead, or maybe not, maybe it’s all a dream, maybe it’s just my imagination. I don’t know what I’m reading anymore. So blurry, so entangled. But I stay for the images. The images are powerful. Remind me of my childhood, in father’s village. The water drops, the long rainy days, the light of the sun in el patio. My mind wandered back to those days of my past. Or is it my future? Or is it where I’ll go when I’m dead?