Every author that creates is a liar;literature is a lie,but from that lie, a recreation of reality is born. Therefore, recreating reality is one of the fundaments of creation. — Juan Rulfo Copy Share Image
“The sky was filled with fat stars, swollen from the long night. The moon had risen briefly and then slipped out of sight. It… — Juan Rulfo Copy Share Image
“What's taking you so long in the privy, son?" "Nothing, mama." "If you stay in there much longer, a snake will come and bite you" "Yes, mama." I was thinking of you, Susana of the green hills. Of when we used to fly kites in the windy season. We could hear the sounds of life from the town below; we… — Juan Rulfo Copy Share
“I am lying in the same bed where my mother died so long ago; on the same mattress, beneath the same black wool coverlet she wrapped us in to sleep. I slept beside her, her little girl, in the special place she made for me in her arms. I think I can still feel the calm rhythm of her breathing;… — Juan Rulfo Copy Share
“We live in a region where everything is given to us, thanks to Providence, but where everything is bitter.” — Juan Rulfo Copy Share Image
“Every morning at dawn the village trembles with the rumbling of the wagons. They come in from everywhere, loaded with saltpeter, with corn, with hay. The wheels creak and creak, rattling the windows and waking up the village. That's the hour when the ovens are opened and the air smells of new-baked bread.Suddenly it thunders, perhaps, and the rain falls.… — Juan Rulfo Copy Share
No one knows better than I do how far heaven is, but I also know all the shortcuts. The secret is to die, when… — Juan Rulfo Copy Share Image
There was no air; only the dead, still night fired by the dog days of August. Not a breath. I had to suck in… — Juan Rulfo Copy Share Image
Nothing can last forever. There isn't any memory, no matter how intense, that doesn't fade out at last. — Juan Rulfo Copy Share Image
