This brand new 2018 New Directions edition of José Revueltas's extremely short 1969 novel THE HOLE is a very small and very precious object. You can and should read it in one abbreviated sitting. And you should also sit with it, turn it over in your hands, reflect on it. Few books I have grappled with in recent memory are at the same time such rich and fascinating objects. One might wish to call it an artifact, though the fact remains that part of what makes this edition so fascinating is that it is a very current thing, providing access for North American readers to a massively important literary work wherefore they previously had none. Should I call it a novel? Many will of course call it a novella. In reality, there are certainly even short stories out there that supersede it in word count. In his fascinating introduction Álvaro Enrigue insist on calling THE HOLE a novel. I am inclined to follow suit. Perhaps it is the meal in a pill progress always promised but never provided. Bite-sized. But a feast. Or perhaps a very small thing of so profound a density as to consign it to a category of things science cannot yet properly comprehend. José Revueltas wrote THE HOLE as a political prisoner held apart from his revolutionary comrades, most of whom were far younger then himself, with the larger population of miscellaneous criminals in Mexico City's infamous Lecumberri Prison, where the novel takes place. It is short on plot. Three criminals, confined to the hole, await three female visitors who are to smuggle in heroin and hand it over to them under the camouflage of a diversionary uproar. Things don’t go smoothly, as well they might not. Though a Marxist--and a Marxist more or less jailed for being a Marxist--Revueltas often found himself ill-fitted to leftist organizations and it is not hard to see why: he has few illusions about both the ugliness of oppression and the tendency of the oppressed to revert to barbarism. THE HOLE is the furthest possible thing from a socialist realist novel of proletarian determination and concomitant uplift. It is a dismal and incendiary novel operating at the level of the irreducibly bestial. The guards are called "apes," and are just prisoners by another name. Our narrator imagines the guards at home. "Life," he muses, "was one long not knowing anything at all: not knowing that they were in their cage, husband and wife, husband and husband, wife and children, father and father, sons and fathers, terrified, universal apes." The grim human landscape of THE HOLE is explicitly zoological. Everybody here has already been destroyed yet remains animated by consuming desperation. The prose is thick and torrential. Composed of one unbroken paragraph, the novel resembles less the digressive and obsessional novels of Thomas Bernhard than it does some of the future apocalyptic deluges of László Krasznahorkai. It contains and ultimately culminates in harrowing, indelible images. It sets out to do violence unto the brain what will not easily be erased nor easily effaced. It is revolutionary literature but about as far as things get from utopian. It is so unholy as to be sacred. It is a cry from hell clamorous with pulsing life. It is a piece of Inferno. If you come to art for truth, truth here ye shall find, but an upsetting and disconcerting form of it. Revueltas may well have believed in solidarity, and prison stories often revel in its embattled manifestations, but you will not find evidence of it here. Survival and desperation are often productive of the most callow forms of self-seeking. Ugly situations often lead to terminal behaviour and grave aberrations. THE HOLE gives uncommonly powerful voice to these things. Uncommonly powerful almost certainly because unpleasantly lived.