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Juan Rulfo was one of those who stood at the beginning of magic realism.
Pedro Páramo is a descent into the hell of human memory, a plunge into an abyss of the dire past � the hero travels to find his father but he finds himself astray in the land of the dead.

Behind him, as he left, he heard the murmuring.
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; the palpitations and sighs that soothed my sleep... I think I feel the pain of her death... But that isn't true.
Here I lie, flat on my back, hoping to forget my loneliness by remembering those times.
Because I am not here just for a while. And I am not in my mother's bed but in a black box like the ones for burying the dead. Because I am dead.

The novel is the Gehenna of despair and the Tartarus of sorrow and there is nowhere to hide so one must pass through the labyrinth of insufferable agony.
Destiny makes us travel though the strange valleys�