There exists a certain type of fictional narrative whereby the author endeavors to free himself of an obsession that is not clear even to himself. For good or ill, this is the only sort of fiction I am able to write. I have found myself forced to write countless numbers of stories, incomprehensible to me, since my adolescence. Fortunately, I made few efforts to see them into print, and in 1948 I decided to publish just one of them, “El Túnel” [The Tunnel]. In the thirteen years that followed I continued to explore that dark labyrinth that leads to the central secret of our life. I tried at one time or another to express in writing the outcome of my research until I grew discouraged at the poor results and ended up destroying the majority of my manuscripts. Today a few friends who have read those that survived have urged me to publish them. I wish to express here my gratitude to all of them for that faith and confidence that unfortunately I have never had myself.
I dedicate this novel to the woman who has persistently encouraged me at moments when I lacked faith, which is most of the time. Without her I should never have had the fortitude to finish it. And despite the fact that she doubtless deserves something better, with all its imperfections, this belongs to her.
ERNESTO SABATO