John Grady Cole

Character Analysis

Doesn't talk much. No sir. In fact, that's pretty much the most important thing you need to know about All the Pretty Horses' central protagonist. Dude's laconic. In fact, pretty much everything we learn about the real JGC comes from our handy narrator. As for Cole himself, it's really his actions that speak louder than his words. Which is not hard. Because he seriously uses no words.

Steel Bars, Wrapped Around This Heart of His

Like Ernest Hemingway's protagonists, John is stoic: he's not one to talk about his feelings or his past, or display much emotion. He is a steady, reassuring presence in the novel, embodying its focus on restraint and directness, and general unwillingness in talking your ear off.

He simply endures, much like that old pair of shoes you used to own. A lot of his dialogue consists of "no" and "yeah," or questions asked of his more talkative companions. When roused to action by various situations, he can be tough, straightforward, and commanding.

Because of this, and because of the ways in which he seems experienced, it is often easy to forget that he is only sixteen years old. Take, for example, the following argument with the Dueña Alfonsa over her deal with Alejandra to get John out of prison; Alfonsa's own status, power, and age dwarf John's, but he manages to get a forceful, simple point across:

[John:] You took advantage of her.
[Alfonsa:] I was pleased to be in a bargaining position at all.[John:] Dont ask me to thank you.[Alfonsa:] I shant.[John:] You didnt have the right. You should of left me there.[Alfonsa:] You would have died.[John:] Then I'd of died. (3377-83)

John here shows not only the strength of his affection for Alejandra, but the depth of his convictions. If he can't love who he wants to love, then he would rather die. Hooey, that's some true love right there. These strong convictions, of course, are also what seem to alienate him from the emotional expressiveness (and also the deceptiveness) of the world about him.

MacGyver in a Cowboy Hat

While he probably isn't much fun at parties, John comes across as very capable at both ranch work and survival. Blevins immediately notes John's skill at riding a horse, and John draws a crowd of over 100 people when he breaks 16 wild horses in under 4 days at the hacienda, "some come from the pueblo of La Vega six miles to the south, some from farther" (1615). After his horsebreaking session, he gets passed a clay dish of tortillas at dinner from both sides of the aisle, and the men there handle it "like a ceremonial bowl" (1640). At that point he takes on the stature of a celebrity at the ranch.

But his skill isn't limited to horse riding; John later holds his own in a knife fight against a skilled opponent, in a shootout against adults, and in eluding pursuers via horseback. He even burns out a bullet wound with a hot pistol barrel. When John tells his tale to a judge near the end of a novel, after unknown persons make a claim to own Blevins' horse, "there was absolute silence in the courtroom" (3850). He is one bad mutha-shut-yo-mouth—and he could probably fix your car while also fending off bandits with a six-shooter.

A Softer Side

Despite his general superbadness, John has his moments of vulnerability and concern, which are all the more powerful for that reason. He looks out for fellow travelers, especially Blevins, even when it isn't in his own interest to do so.

Even where he has good reason to hate someone, as with the prison captain who shot Blevins or Alfonsa after she makes a deal to keep John from Alejandra, he doesn't let that cloud his actions or thinking. He doesn't hate Alfonsa for her messing with his relationship, feels deep regret over having to kill the cuchillero, and even feels bad about a momentary surge of violent hatred against the captain. The novel doesn't dwell long on these moments, but they serve to shore up John's steady, transparent, old-time virtuousness. He's a guy who believes in treating others fairly even where he is not, and that sets him apart from a world that seems changeable and uncaring.

And while he isn't one to show much emotion—and the narrator rarely discusses his emotional state—he is the center of some of the most emotionally affecting scenes in the novel. When Alejandra tells him for the last time that she cannot be with him, he's just plain devastated:

"He saw very clearly how all his life led only to this moment and all after led nowhere at all. He felt something cold and soulless enter him like another being and he imagined that it smiled malignly and he had no reason to believe that it would ever leave." (3577)

This kind of direct description of his feelings is very rare in the novel—we mostly learn about his emotions through indirect physical descriptions or through the reactions of others. Which, to a large degree, spares the ruggedness of the character, and maintains him as a man of action rather than contemplation.

At the same time, this creates more distance between John and everyone else. See, while others can perceive and react to emotion, John's kinda stuck in that department. For example, when the devastated John stands on a train platform watching Alejandra go, we can only imagine how horrorstruck he looks through what happens to a little girl nearby:

"He saw a man with a little girl in his arms and he whirled her around and she was laughing and when she saw his face she stopped laughing." (3579)

And after attending Abuela's funeral near the end of the novel, the narrator does not describe John crying or feeling sad, but mentions that he "turned and put on his hat and turned his wet face to the wind" (4049). This is the only time John sheds a tear in the novel (for us, it would have been the knife fight) and we can only guess at the depth of his sadness. If he changes at all in the novel, it is mostly in the degree to which he believes that this world is anathema to him and his way of life, and that he no longer has a place in it.