On Heroes and Tombs comes to America trailing 20 years of acclaim…. But when considering it whole, I feel obliged to raise a dissenting voice against the litanies of praise. And if there's a single reason why this remains a curiously unsatisfying book, it may lie in the vicinity of Sábato's enlistment of Dostoevski in support of his riddling method: "phrases as seemingly prosaic as 'Alexey Fyoderovitch Karamazov was the third son of Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov …' take on in retrospect a profound meaning…. We never know until the end if what happens to us is history or mere happen-stance." Sábato constantly hints at a strategy of retrospective validation: by the end, he assures us, we will understand the enigma. Like Dostoevski or Hitchcock, Sábato creates mysteries, precisely so that we are forced to experience his work with the minutest attention, lest we miss a vital clue; unlike those two masters, however, he is willing to leave too much unresolved, too much half-explained. Dostoevski would never have tolerated so vague an ending; Hitchcock would certainly have revealed (for instance) why Martin sees Alejandra entering the very house in which, according to Fernando, the Sect of the Blind held him captive.

Sábato's 13-year gestation produced a frequently brilliant book, but one marred by its opacity…. (pp. 5, 12)