When the first edition of Doña Bárbara appeared in 1929, the Venezuelan strong-man, don Juan Vicente Gómez, received alarming reports indicating that the novel was a not-so-veiled indictment of his dictatorial regime. In order to ascertain for himself the accuracy of this accusation, the dictator had the novel read to him by his Minister of Education while enjoying a longed-for vacation on the plains. With nightfall encroaching on the open-air reading scene, an aide suggested the postponement of the reading until the next day, but Gómez, enthralled by the very engaging plot of the novel, vehemently objected. Instead, he had his limousine brought to him, and under the headlights of the automobile the recitation continued well into the night. When it was all over, the dictator broke the silence to say: “This bookworm [bachiller] really knows how men work.” Soon afterwards, he summarily invested Gallegos with the title of Senator for that region the author had shown he knew so well.

If I have begun the consideration of Doña Bárbara with this unusual anecdote, it is because Gómez's phrase could have been penned, mutatis mutandis, by countless critics and historians of literature. They too have shared in the dictator's admiration for Gallegos' intimate knowledge of llano life, and they, in turn, have granted Gallegos a niche in Latin American literary history. Predictably enough, Gallegos himself furnished ample evidence supporting the accurately mimetic quality of his work in several articles and conversations where he described the genesis of his novel.