SOURCE: "Ontological Motifs in the Short Stories of Juan Rulfo," in Journal of Spanish Studies, Vol. 1, No. 3, Winter, 1973, pp. 161-68.

[In the following essay, Lyon identifies and examines common motifs in The Burning Plain.]

"Life's but a walking shadow . . ."

SHAKESPEARE, "Macbeth"

El llano en llamas dramatically affirms Zum Felde's position that "La verdadera historia—la intrahistoria—la escriben los novelistas [y cuentistas]" [índice critico de la literatura hispanoamericana, 1959] Numerous critics have already called attention to the correspondences between Rulfo's stories and the real world from which they are drawn. [In Nueva novela latinoamericana, edited by Jorge Lafforgue, 1969] Blanco Aguinaga declares that "Los cuentos . . . se dan en una tierra concreta donde la situación de los personajes adquiere un muy particular cariz porque sobre ella pesa una muy particular condición histórica." [In Nueva narrativa hispanoamericana, 1971], Graciela Coulson spends an entire article arguing for the universality and "supra-realism" of Rulfo's stories but concludes that none of the characters "se libera de las limitaciones de la realidad . . . Rulfo no rechaza en ningún momento la realidad material que es su experiencia inmedíata." The author himself, in one of his rare interviews, almost plays with his interlocutor in declaring the necessity of recreating a known world:

REPORTERO: ¿Por qué usted usó siempre como escenarios los pueblecitos, las rancherías?

RULFO: Porque es lo que conocí.

REPORTERO: ¿Un escritor debe escribir solamente acerca de lo que conoce?

RULFO: Desde luego, eso es lógico.

REPORTERO: ¿Y la imaginación?

RULFO: Imaginar es recrear la realidad. Para imaginar primero hay que conocer.

No serious reader can deny the function of these stories in adequately mirroring the realities of rural Mexico. Yet despite such a near-palpable observation, few critics have paused to analyze the elements Rulfo employs to achieve this unique, near life-like vision of man. Even Hugo Rodríguez Alcalá, in his fine study of four stories [in El Arte de Juan Rulfo, 1965], does not generalize on the nature of existence nor point to any basic unifying motifs in all of the prose. In pointing out that the most striking aspect of El llano en llamas is its "parquedad estilística," he does hint at the basic premise of this study, namely, that Rulfo must say much in a short compass, and as a result writes with many repeated motifs and images.

This inquiry will analyze the motifs (recurring stylistic, syntactic and thematic elements) common to the fifteen stories of El llano en llamas. But rather than emphasize style or usage, each motif will be related to being and the nature of existence portrayed in the world Rulfo creates. While the stories do not exhibit the unity common to a single novel (Pedro Páramo, for example), taken as a whole, they do present a singular world-view of life in rural Jalisco. The following motifs serve as basic unifiers among the stories and represent aspects of the nature of human existence: (1) walking (continual movement), (2) plaguing memory, (3) futility of effort, and (4) vision limited by darkness.

The most striking aspect of Rulfo's narrative world is that life is not static or passive acceptance, rather continual change, movement, always at a slow pace, afoot. This movement is frequently an attempted escape from the past (and even the present at times), as in "El hombre," "En la madrugada," "Paso del norte," and "Diles que no me maten." It may also function as an expiatory march in an attempt to remove past guilt or fulfill a distant promise ("Talpa," and "No oyes ladrar los perros"). Walking may merely function to demonstrate man's groping loneliness and isolation ("La noche que lo dejaron solo," and "La cuesta de las Comadres"). Or it may be a futile search for a lost future as in "Es que somos muy pobres" (the search for the drowned cow) and "Nos han dado la tierra." Many of the stories are completely structured on the motif of the walk. All of "Talpa" takes place on the road to and from that city:

Y yo comienzo a sentir como si no hubiéramos llegado a ninguna parte; que estamos aquí de paso, para descansar, y que luego seguiremos caminando. No sé para dónde; pero tendremos que seguir, porque aquí estamos muy cerca del remordimiento y del recuerdo de Tanilo.

"No oyes ladrar los perros" is the monologue and memory of an old man during the time he stumbles along carrying a dying, worthless son; when the painful journey ends, so too does the life of the son:

Ya debemos estar llegando a ese pueblo, Ignacio. Tú que llevas las orejas de fuera, fíjate a ver si no oyes ladrar los perros. Acuérdate que nos dijeron que Tonaya estaba detrasito del monte. Y desde qué horas que hemos dejado el monte. Acuérdate, Ignacio . . . Me estoy cansando.

"En la madrugada" and "El hombre" portray man in continual movement, never resting in life: "Si me la pasaba en un puro viaje con las vacas . . . me las traía de vuelta para llegar con ellas de madrugada. Aquello parecía una eterna peregrinación." "Nos han dado la tierra" portrays men on the move; each step painfully confirms the futility of existence and injustices perpetuated from above. The government seat ("sedere"—to be fixed in a spot) is immovable; man, on his feet ("stare"—to stand) must give in and move.

The above-cited quotations point not only to life as movement but to the endless nature of existence: "Camino y camino y no ando nada;" "Aquello parecía una eterna peregrinación;" "estamos aquí de paso . . . y luego seguiremos caminando." Yet, confronted with this seemingly futile march, all of Rulfo's men continue; they are, in this sense, true heroes, not giving up in despair or lethargy. Life is movement and man struggles to find purpose to existence by keeping constantly on the move. He is not "petrified [static] before an implacable destiny" as one critic asserts. Rulfo's style blends with the walking motif; verbal phrases are frequently lengthened, projecting the contemporary scene into an unending present. Forms such as "ya debemos estar llegando, " "seguiremos caminando," and "me estoy cansando" concentrate the reader's attention on the continuation or duration of the action, rather than its completion. "La Cuesta de las Comadres se había ido deshabitando," emphasizes the slowness of the process as well as the fact that it continues to drag on into the present; this unending action could never be shown in a shorter, completed verb form such as "se deshabitó." George Schade's fine English translation has been able to capture this continuation in time by placing "kept on," "started to," or "began," before the main form of the verb. This technique of stretching out the present through complex verb forms is one of the constant traits of Rulfo's style (as yet not seriously studied by critics). Life then, is movement, walking, plodding, running, in a futile attempt to achieve purpose.

The second unifying ontological motif is memory and its results. As life is stretched through an endless present, in constant movement, the past returns to fill up and completely determine man's now-existence. Memory is rarely mental escape into a pleasant past, rather a subconscious life experience which makes the present unendingly intolerable and the future impossible. Graciela Coulson has noted that in "Talpa" "el instrumento de castigo será, pues, la propia memoria de cada uno." The same may be said for all Rulfo's stories, where memory haunts and pursues. Much like Borges' Funes who eliminates his own future in his completely "unforgettable" past, Rulfo's men bear the onerous burden of memory through their tedious lives. Some carry a crime, perhaps minor or even justifiable, that relentlessly pursues ("La Cuesta de las Comadres," "Diles que no me maten," "El hombre," "Acuérdate," etc.). Memory gives the entire structure to "El hombre" and "Acuérdate." Rulfo normally begins a story in the present and then quickly lapses into the past, often the body of the narrative, to show its effect on the present (quot;Diles que no me maten," "Macario," "Luvina," etc.). Thus, man is enslaved by oppressive memory, unable to live the present of future:

Me acuerdo que eso pasó allá por octubre. Y digo que me acuerdo que fue por esos días, porque en Zapotlán estaban quemando cohetes, mientras por el rumbo donde tiré a Remigio se levantaba una gran parvada de zopilotes . . . de eso me acuerdo.

Pero nosotros lo llevamos allí para que se muriera, eso es lo que no se me olvida.

Every one of Rulfo's major characters is beset by haunting memories. Macario is unable to sort out the past but intuits its effect on his tragic life. Natalia's memory of walking her sick husband to death destroys her love for the penitant narrator. Lucas Lucatero is bound to a small plot of ground by the memory of killing his unholy fatherin-law and the necessity of continually stacking rocks on the grave. In every one of the fifteen stories the words "me acuerdo," "acordarse," "nos acordamos," or some similar verb form depict this past-in-the-present motif. Rulfo's men have lost freedom to control their lives by the continuance of the past into the present. Life is remembrance of a hapless past, with no future.

A third motif related to the nature of existence is that of futility—wasted lives, worthless lands, senseless deaths, useless government. Human relationships, like the land, are barren and non-productive. The family is the only institution with any meaning. Church, neighbors, local or federal governments provide no assistance or salvation and serve only to exploit or burden memory. The inhabitants of Luvina consider the government as a human entity, a bastard child: ". . . el gobierno no tenia Madre." Spiritual help fails: Tanilo "Siguió rezando con su vela apagada. Rezando a gritos para oír que rezaba. Pero no le valió. Se murió de todos modos" ("Talpa"). The infertility of the land is the backdrop for more than half of the stories ("La Cuesta de las Comadres," "Es que somos muy pobres," "Nos han dado la tierra," "Luvina," etc.). Negation is the only way to describe the land: "No, el llano no es cosa que sirva. No hay ni pájaros. No hay nada. A no ser unos cuantos huizaches trespeleques y una que otra manchita de zacate con las hojas enroscadas; a no ser eso, no hay nada . . . No este duro pellejo de vaca que se llama el Llano" ("Nos han dado la tierra"). Human existence values no more, and sometimes less, than a mere animal. Tacha's future is ruined in the loss of her dowry cow. Juvencio kills his neighbor due to the death of one calf. Walking rarely leads to usefulness or action; the painful miles to Talpa are slowly retraced as the expected love vanishes. The suffering during forty years of escape and hiding is a futile argument to an unforgiving officer: "Dile al sargento que te deje ver al coronel. Y cuéntale lo viejo que estoy. Lo poco que valgo. ¿Qué ganancia sacará con matarme? Ninguna ganancia." The excruciating walk of the father in "No oyes ladrar los perros" is futilely climaxed by the death of his unworthy son. All of Rulfo's characters strive for decency, justice, and completeness but all are frustrated by their own past, unfeeling fellowmen or infertile land. A few of the stories end the futility of existence with the death of the protagonist; must simply postulate continuance in a non-ending, painful present.

Eleven of the fifteen stories take place either totally or partially during the night. Man's physical world is thus limited to his very immedíate surroundings or to the distances he can walk. Darkness is symbolic of the limited spiritual or intellectual reaches to which man may attain, bound by his inability to see the future or even adequately comprehend the eternal present in which he gropes. Rarely is he ever lost in darkness; he stumbles, plods and continues the journey, despite a predictable, futile ending. Seldom is man described in clear terms in Rulfo; he is most often a shadowy, mysterious being occasionally slipping out from dark shadows, always retreating back into them.

While all stories do not occur at night, important action is nocturnal. The flood that destroys Tacha's cow awakens the family by its dragging sound. "El hombre" sneaks into an enemy's house and kills the whole family because the dark did not permit him to distinguish his foe. During the rest of his life he must hide out by day (a no-life) and exist at night, like some nocturnal animal. In fact, man fleeing during the interminable night, forms the entire structure of "El llano en llamas," "La noche que lo dejaron solo," "En la madrugada" and "No oyes ladrar los perros." The day-time walking in "Talpa" is turned into anguish by the night-time horrors of falling out of love. "Luvina," already a near-ghost town, is made more terrifying by the howling wind and a "murmullo sordo," later identified merely as "el silencio," so pounding it can be heard by any traveller to the spectral village.

The most powerful example of limited vision in darkness is "No oyes ladrar los perros." The father, doubly blinded by the sprawling son he carries as well as the night, anticipates only one event—that the boy will hear the village dogs barking, a sign that he's nearly home. The barking of the dogs not only forebodes death but also symbolizes relief, release from anxiety. Since man's sight is clouded, in this story as well as others, the most characteristic image is auditory. Dogs bark, wind whistles, branches crack, frogs croak, coyotes howl, rifle shots ring out, screams shock the night. Man's life takes on less significance as natural and animal forces take control of the night world; they continue their unbridled existence while man slowly gropes through darkness. The wounded son, Ignacio, experiences increasing difficulty in hearing and responding to his exhausted father and the reader realizes he will never hear the dogs. As the old man discharges his dead load "oyó cómo por todas partes ladraban los perros." The walk ends but the reader realizes that night and its effects will continue to oppress and frustrate man.

Although Rulfo's only novel, Pedro Páramo, employs a dream-like, stream of consciousness technique, many of the same motifs reflect similar realities. Juan Preciado wanders alone, searching, always on foot; much of his Odyssey takes place at night, in darkened rooms or possibly in the visionless tomb. Pedro Páramo moves constantly about but always on horseback, indicative of his higher status than most Rulfo characters. The whole town of Cornala gives an impression of a shadowy specter, drifting about in the darkness. Memories have destroyed the town's existence; Juan's mother recalled it as a paradise whereas Pedro crossed his arms and let it die, remembering the unloving treatment shown him at Susana's death. Memories have impregnated the walls and the ground and spring out to haunt the present. Juan Preciado's search is futile from the beginning; his father is already dead. Pedro Páramo, inferring rocky sterile ground, is frustrated in his sincere desires for Susana since her memory does not allow her to forget her first husband, Florencio. In summary, Pedro Páramo projects a narrative world surprisingly similar to that portrayed in Rulfo's short stories.

These four motifs combine to present a unified vision of the nature of human existence in El llano en llamas. Man is a struggling, ever-moving being trying to achieve. To live is to continue. Rulfo's men are not existential or intellectual heroes, caught in the static and stifling paradox of making absurd choices. His heroes, and they justifiably deserve that term, act and strive. Life is a journey, alone, on foot, in search of refuge, a future of peace, love and decency. Manuel Durán has noted several differences between the story that closes El llano en llamas, "Anacleto Morones," and the rest of the collection [Atlantic Monthly 213, March, 1964]. His argument is sustained by our finding—Anacleto is the only character who passes the whole story seated, making fun of the pious women who walk so far. For the rest of the characters, life can never be static.

The rhythm of the walk seems to stimulate memory, a haunting vision that pursues man, making existence an attempted, impossible escape. In every story the past returns to the present, weighing it down, thwarting man. Yet despite noble efforts, man's existence is futile and hopeless. Death catches its client, land is sterile, a daughter turns to prostitution, love is drowned in remorse. Unable to see beyond the dark limited present, existence is continuation for these heroic men who struggle against futility, dragging the past as endless burden.