In my opinion, the focus of [El túnel] falls not solely on human isolation [as some critics have maintained] but rather on something far more obvious, the universally valid fact of human psychology: the Oedipus complex.

Juan Pablo Castel lives out a well-nigh classic example of Oedipal involvement and conflict. The book could almost be called a "Freudian primer." As a matter of fact, Castel finally destroys the person who is for him most fundamentally the symbol of a mother. And, there is little need even to point out, in passing, that this person's name is María, surely one of the most productive signs in all of Christian symbology, the Universal Mother of all Christians.

The plot, or schematic story content of El túnel, as well as the "achieved content" or "experience" are products or aspects of the mentality of the protagonist…. The reader is allowed no view, opinion or insight that does not originate with Pablo Castel. However, nothing will be kept, finally, from the reader…. Although Castel states early that he would reserve for himself his motives in writing his confession …, he nevertheless tells his entire story. And, in spite of the fact that setting, time, locations, and all normally observable external, objective factors are filtered through Castel's mentality, the essence of his story is told with utmost clarity and with something which approaches clinical exactitude. Sábato skillfully portrays for his reader not only the conscious mentality of his character, but also his subconscious mind. Nearly all of the significant elements, scenes, images and symbols in this portrayal are, in one way or another, related to womanhood or to motherhood. And, even when not specifically related to the latter, they are, nevertheless, entirely germane to the totality of his story. Castel's dreams and the scenes in the book that take place near the sea or are otherwise related to it, tell his story far more clearly than does his ostensible "confession."

Castel has three dreams and one series of nightmares which he describes with varying degrees of detail. All these dreams are clearly representations, in another form, of scenes and situations charged, for him, at least, with emotion and feeling. (pp. 271-72)

Even a casual examination of these dreams seems to expand and clarify Castel's account of his feelings and actions. Awake, he does not seem to be in contact with his conscience. But in his dreams "ideational material" appears to illuminate for the reader his true state of mind. (p. 273)

[Castel's dreams] tend to amplify his personality. By means of the dreams another dimension is added to his confession. In addition, the fact that almost all of them point to interpretations related in some way to Woman suggests that an examination of other symbols in the story might be profitable.

The precise starting point—the true focal point—of the novel is Castel's painting. This painting, significantly, is called "Maternidad." It manifests itself in three different forms in the course of the narrative. It begins the novel and, in its way, prefigures a great deal of the content. Conceptually, the novel suspends from the different aspects and projections of this central scene.

The first form that the scene takes is the "actual" one, the one in which his painting is shown. The most important aspect about his work, Castel thinks, is a small scene in the corner of the larger painting. In this smaller scene a girl is looking at the sea—anxiously. When interpreted in terms of its own context, it is an echo of the total meaning of the painting, the sea being, of course, one of the most common symbols of motherhood.

At this showing of his work Castel meets María Iribarne whose extremely profound understanding of him will be revealed ultimately. Her understanding, it becomes clear, is exactly what he has been seeking. The final and crashing irony of the book is that Castel is so preoccupied with his own reasoning that he fails to see that he has achieved his goal of communication.

María's initial response to Castel is passively feminine and controlled. Castel literally forces his acquaintance upon her, although she later admits to precisely the same feelings that he describes. However, María admits these feelings only after having gone to the family estancia where she strolls near the sea and considers their relationship. This experience, which she relates to Castel in a letter is the second major overt manifestation of the small scene in the novel. (pp. 274-75)

The similarity to a scene involving a mother and child is patent [also in the] last of the scenes near the sea. Castel's remarks about his dark thoughts are … an overt indication of the violence that is about to ensue….

Taking up the same knife, apparently, with which he later kills María, he pauses for a moment to consider his painting. Believing that his attempt at communication has failed he rips the painting to shreds….

The destruction of the painting is a gesture prefiguring the actual murder of María. To Castel's mind there would seem to be no real difference between the two acts. He accomplishes both while tears blur his vision. And María's calmness in the moment before her death takes on a poignancy which contrasts vividly with Castel's unseeing rage….

When viewed in a context of Oedipal conflict this scene, with its repeatedly plunging knife, certainly needs no commentary to aid in interpreting its symbolism. (p. 275)

In Sábato's work one feels that Castel is afforded a glimpse of the world through his painting—that is, he is allowed the chance "to be born" to the world. His deep-seated emotional illness, however, prevents this "birth." Instead, he propels himself along his own pathological tunnel of protection and isolation from the world. In fact, his murdering María allows him the opportunity to complete his symbolic journey, his journey in reverse. His cell, at the end of the book, is an enclosure synonymous with his own mind, a place he was never able to escape. More succinctly stated, by killing his "mother" he returns to the womb. From his cell he is able for the first time to consider an outside world that is normal. However, he is entirely "safe" from it….

While conceding that Castel may be viewed as an isolated, existentialist, rather typical twentieth century protagonist—his name, Juan Pablo, even echoes Sartre's—it is equally valid to suggest that Sábato has rather effectively fused Sophocles and Freud, as it were, and produced a work of fiction that bridges, conceptually, an immense span of time. The continuing appeal of Oedipus Rex is underscored for us in El túnel. Sábato's fascination with this theme has resulted in a novel that will undoubtedly remain "contemporary" for a long time. (p. 276)