This book is an eclectic collection of surrealistic short stories. Many of the stories have an odd, nightmare-like quality to them. The language does not flow like in most short stories, and this may be a problem intrinsic in reading a story that has been translated. It takes considerable effort to get through these stories.

These stories are a good start in learning about the Latin American story-telling tradition.

Ese libro nos muestra las cuantiosas maneras en que lo norteamericano diferencia con lo mexicano. Siendo norteamericano, me identifico con Ambrose Bierce y Harriet que llevan sus costumbres y modales en todo momento. "La búsqueda" que efectúa el Gringo Viejo es algo que va en contra de las normas de la sociedad y me parece un poco tabú. La forma en que Fuentes escribe no añade nada al contenido ya que sus historias no parecen auténticas. Realmente no recomiendo el libro a los que buscan una diversión; pero sería aconsejable leer el libro si sea un estudiante de la revolución mexicana.

Gringo Viejo no tiene el mismo estilo de La Muerte de Artemio Cruz, es más ligero. El libro nos lleva a conocer las fronteras u obstaculos que tiene cada uno de los personajes y las de ambas culturas: Norteamericana y Mexicana. En lo personal me gustaría un final distinto. Si alguien quisiera comentarlo personalmente mande un mail.

This is a strange, rambling, but entertaining pastiche which is characteristic Fuentes. Even his best works are uneven, and this novel is decidedly so; but Freddy Lambert's narrative drama is sometimes splendid. The plot concerns a group of friends who trade various ideas and histories with one another (as well as sex) on a long journey into a metaphorical past. On the way, there are long asides regarding the conquest of Mexico, fascism, and literature. All goes well until the conclusion: Fuentes inverts the novel by repeating its major incidents with a set of different (and symbolic) characters, in a sequence which is neither insightful nor interesting. In a way, the novel is a very good summation of its author: the man who said "I am abundant," in reference to his virility has always had more ideas that he can edit.

Considered by many to be Fuentes' all-time masterpiece, Where the Air is Clear (1958), his first novel, takes you on a roller-coaster tour of post-revolutionary Mexican urban history. It's all there, from roughneck taxi drivers and prostitues trying to make their daily bread, to bored members of a fading aristocracy, of which only the double-barreled names remain. The novel's diverse characters meet and unmeet in a bizarre range of social situations, ever-observed by the Spanish-Indigenous hybrid Ixca Cienfuegos. Cienfuegos, a type of Greek Chorus character who watches the ups and downs of the novel's cast like a mad-scientist doing an experiment, doesn't hesitate to drop in for a chat to the characters, provoking them to pour out their hearts in sometimes tedious monologues. If you have a basic grasp of Mexico's history you'll understand this novel better, although if you don't know the history, a stack of not too subtle symbols will help you out. (A young member of a once aristocratic family looks at herself in a mirror, while Vivaldi plays on a scratched record in the background. That kind of thing.) Don't take this novel to the beach, it ain't a beach novel. Argentine writer Julio Cortazar, in a letter to Fuentes after reading the book, summed it up: ``You've given in to the magnificent sin committed by so many first-time novel writers..you've put a whole world into 500 pages.'' A rare Latin American urban epic, this book is certainly worth reading for anyone with an interest in the Mexican psyche. If you want to see how the thinking behind Octavio Paz's Labyrinth of Solitude would work, applied to a TV mini-series, and have a few days to spare, give it a go.

Although this book earned the Seix Barral award, it is poor compared to other works of Fuentes. A failed attempt to make a novel with many significant levels. A lenguage experiment that results awful. It might have been interesting in the sixties, but thirty years later is not worth it. A novel that won't stand the test of times.

When Carlos Fuentes writes well, he is a joy to read. When, however, he wants to demonstrate how learned he is, his writing is insufferable. This novel falls into the latter category. It is ostentatiously erudite and belches Fuentes' obsessions with highly esoteric questions. It is a cold, inhuman novel, devoid of warmth, fascinated by the process of narration itself and ultimately overly intellectual. If one had to create a list of works that exemplify the death of literature, "Una Familia Lejana"would have a well deserved spot on the list...