A son travels to a town called Comala to find the father he has never met and discovers that everyone there is dead. Juan Rulfo's 1955 novel, scarcely more than a hundred pages long, dismantled the boundary between the living and the dead in Latin American fiction and opened a door through which an entire tradition would walk. The voices of Comala's ghosts overlap and interrupt one another, murmuring their grievances in fragments the reader must piece together like shards of a broken mirror. Rulfo, who would write almost nothing after this single novel, created a world where time has collapsed and love and tyranny echo without end. The heat shimmers. The dead go on talking. No one is listening, and no one can stop.