Deep within, while writing this book, Carlos Fuentes seems to sense that he might be making a mistake. Dr. Fuentes is a distinguished writer, and distinction resides even in the mandatory scenes of violence, the enforced plastic surgery that robs Felix of his identity, the philosophical expatiations we now expect from our distinguished villains, the ridiculous coincidences, the Greene-type observations. If there are moments in the novel when the artist is overwhelmed by the analyst, or the political fervor of the author leads him to write an unseemly rhetoric into the mouths of his characters, the reader does best to move on, keeping to the pace of the plot, ignoring the fleas. Mr. Fuentes's great charm consists in part of his high standards. Each story here is bizarre, a tale lingered over by the teller to the point at which, if he were to stay with it a moment longer, he would have to explain everything, and ruin it.
Nothing is explained.
We may interpret each story as we choose, but we cannot call on the teller to endorse our choice.