Lecture: The Sadness Collector A Reading of Merlinda Bobis' The Sadness Collector And she will not stop

eating, another pot, another plate, another mouthful of sadness, and she will grow bigger and bigger, and she will burst. Notice the transition of thought in the story. No familiar marks to separate the different thoughts within the story, not even quotation marks or italics. What is the point of view of the story? What is its focus? The sentences are clipped and the bedtime story (or whatever story it is that Ricas father made up) weaves in and out, leaving the readers with only enough bits and pieces to make out that the main protagonist is a troubled little girl of six. The reader must stay attentive to grasp everything that is going on. We even see some art sketches in this story. snippets of bedtime stories, the central conciousness of Rica, the gossips of aunties intertwined with the philosophical descriptions of the omnicient narrator cleverly brings us to an understanding of this poignant story of a disturbed little girl and her displaced family. As soon as Ricas mother left for Paris to work as a domestic helper, her father has since repeatedly told her the story of the Big Lady (supposedly an imaginary creature who goes to collect any traces of sadness in everyones kitchen) to distract or divert her loneliness. The Big Lady "goes from house to house and eats the sadness in many houses, it just keeps on growing each day, so she cant stop eating, and cant stop growing too." "checking the plates now, lifting the lid off the rice pot, peeking into cups for sadness, both overt and unspoken." We see the psychological effect that the madeup story and the mothers absence had on Rica: Since Rica was three, when her father told her about Big Lady just after mother left for Paris, she has always listened intently to all the night-noises from the kitchen. No, that sound is not the scurrying of mice shes actually checking the plates now, lifting the lid off the rice pot, peeking into cups for sadness, both overt and unspoken. What about the taste of salt in the following lines? To Rica, it always tastes really salty, like tears, even her fathers funny look each time she asks him to read her again the letters from Paris. Perhaps, shes licking a spoon for any trace of saltiness, searching between the prongs of a fork. Unknown to Rica, Big Lady is wise, an old hand in this business. She senses that theres more to a mouthful of sadness than meets the tongue. A whisper of salt, even the smallest nudge to the palate, can betray a century of hidden grief. Perhaps, she understands that, for all its practice, humanity can never conceal the daily act of futility at the dinner table. (this despite her efforts to conceal her loneliness) The Sadness Collector AKA Big Lady became Ricas very defense mechanism, "an ambivalent relationship, confusing, but certainly a source of comfort." Fascination, fear and a kinship drawn from trying to save each other. Big Lady saves Rica from sadness; Rica saves Big Lady from bursting by not being sad. An ambivalent relationship, confusing, but certainly a source of comfort. And always Big Lady as object of attention. Those days when Rica drew stick-drawings of her, she made sure the big one was always adorned with pretty baubles and make-up. She even drew her with a Paris ribbon to tighten her belly. Then she added a chic hat to complete the picture. It is at this point where we are made to wonder who was the SHE being referred to in beginning of the story (if we are to get that as Rica gets older hence bigger, she will not be able to contain her sadness, that she will burst. Things change with time, children grow up, old tales become boring, and sadness will not always be contained Bobis prepared us for this, hence

"Unknown to Rica, Big Lady is wise, an old hand in this business. She senses that theres more to a mouthful of sadness than meets the tongue. A whisper of salt, even the smallest nudge to the palate, can betray a century of hidden grief. Perhaps, she understands that, for all its practice, humanity can never conceal the daily act of futility at the dinner table." ***** "Nowadays, her father makes sure he comes home late each night, so he wont have to answer questions, especially about the baby photograph. So he need not improvise further on this three-year-old tall tale." This part reveals the seriousness in the situation of the family. We come to realize that Ricas father is now in denial, we are made to speculate on the affairs of the mother and then we are brought back to Ricas tight-spot. Thats the rice pot being overturned Her breaths make and unmake a hillock on the sheets A plate shatters on the floor Back to a foetal curl, knees almost brushing chin Another plate crashes She screams The pot is hurled against the wall She keeps screaming as she runs out of the bedroom, down to the kitchen And the cutlery, glasses, cups, more plates Big Ladys angry, Big Ladys hungry, Big Ladys turning the house upside down Breaking it everywhere Her throat is weaving sound, as if it were all what is ever knew "SHUT UP !" Big Lady wants to break all to get to the heart of the matter, where its saltiest. In the vein of a plate, within the aluminium bottom of a pot, in the copper fold of a spoon, deep in the curve of a cups handle Ropes and ropes of scream "I SAID, SHUT UP!" Her cheek stings. She collapses on the floor before his feet. "I didnt mean to. Dios ko po, I never meant to "Her dazed eyes make out the broken plates, the dented pot, the shards of cups, glasses, the cutlery everywhere Hes hiccupping drunkenly all over her "I didnt mean to, Rica, I love you, baby, Ill never let you go." His voice hoarse with anger and remorse. "She came back, Papa " "She cant take you away from me " "Shes here again "

"Just because shes legal now " "She might burst, Papa " "That whore - !" His hands curl into fists on her back. Big Lady knows, has always known. This feast will last her a lifetime, if she does not burst tonight. What does Bobis mean by these last lines? It seems particularly appropriate to be taking Merlinda Bobis short story Sadness Collector to students who sooner or later will relocate by migration (or immigration), hoping they will not be displaced in their own respective 'Diasporas'. The theme of diaspora, dislocation and displacement resurface in different guises throughout Bobis text - from the hybridity of language and food that emerge from the melding of different cultures that occurs during the process of migration, especially in 'The Sadness Collector' in which the problems of a young girl raised by her father while her mother honours overseas contracts abroad are poignantly and, at times, brutally heightened. ONLINE QUIZ: Please Log in DISCUSSION BOARD in your respective ELEAP accounts to answer the quiz. You may comment on the discussion board until 12nn of December 9, Sunday. If 'The Sadness Collector' presents poignantly the problems of a young girl raised by her father while her mother honours overseas contracts abroad, how does this story then of Merlinda Bobis represent the Filipino family in this section?

The Sadness Collector (Merlinda Bobis) And she will not stop eating, another pot, another plate, another mouthful of sadness, and she will grow bigger and bigger, and she will burst. On the bed, six year old Rica braces herself, waiting for the dreaded explosion Nothing. No big bang. Because shes been a good girl. Her tears are not even a mouthful tonight. And maybe their neighbours in the run down apartment have been careful, too. From every pot and plate, they must have scraped off their leftover sighs and hidden them somewhere unreachable. So Big Lady cant get to them. So she can be saved from bursting. Every night, no big bang really, but Rica listens anyway. The house is quiet again. She breathes easier, lifting the sheets slowly from her face a brow just unfurrowing, but eyes still wary and a mouth forming the old silent question are you really there? She turns on the lamp. Its girlie kitsch like the rest of the decor, from the dancing lady wallpaper to the row of Barbie dolls on a roseate plastic table. The tiny room is all pink bravado, hoping to compensate for the warped ceiling and stained floor. Even the unhinged window flaunts a family of pink paper rabbits. Are you there? Her father says she never shows herself to anyone. Big Lady only comes when youre asleep to eat your sadness. She goes from house to house and eats the sadness of everyone, so she gets too fat. But theres a lot of sadness in many houses, it just keeps on growing each day, so she cant stop eating, and she cant stop growing too. Are you really that bid? How do you wear your hair? Dios ko, if she eats all our mess, Rica, she might grow too fat and burst, so be a good girl and save her by not being sad hoy, stop whimpering, I said, and go to bed. Her father is not always patient with his storytelling. All quiet now. Shes gone. Since Rica was three, when her father told her about Big Lady just after her mother left for Paris, she was always listening intently to all the night noises from the kitchen. No, that sound is not the scurrying of mice shes actually checking the plates now, lifting the lid off the rice pot, peeking into cups for sadness, both overt and unspoken. To Rica, it always tastes salty, like tears, even her fathers funny look each time she asks him to read her again the letters from Paris. She has three boxes of them, one for each year, though the third box is not even half full. All of them tied with Paris ribbons. The first year, her mother sent all colours of the rainbow for her long, unruly hair, maybe because her father did not know how to make it more graceful. He must have written her long letters, asking about how to pull the mass of curls away from the face and tie them neatly the way he gathered, into some semblance of order, his own nightly longings. It took some time for him to perfect the art of making a pony tail. Then he discovered a trick unknown to even the best hairdressers. Instead of twisting the bunch of hair to make sure it does not come undone before its tied, one can rotate the whole body. Rica simply had to turn around in place, while her father held the gathered hair above her head. Just like dancing, really. She never forgets, talaga naman, the aunties whisper among themselves these days. A remarkable child. She was only a little thing then, but she noticed all, didnt she, never missed anything, committed even details to memory. A very smart kid, but too serious, a sad kid. They must have guessed that, recently, she has cheated on her promise to behave and save Big Lady. But only on nights when her father comes home late and drunk, and refuses to read the old letters from Paris indeed, she has been a very good girl. Shes six and grown up now, so, even if his refusal has multiplied beyond her ten fingers, she always makes sure that her nightly tears remained small and few. Like tonight, when she hoped her father would come home early, as he promised again. Earlier, Rica watched TV to forget, to make sure the tears wont amount to a mouthful. She hates waiting. Big Lady hates that, too, because then shell have to clean up till the early hours of the morning. Why Paris? Why three years and even more? Aba, this is getting too much now. The aunties never agree with her mothers decision to work there, on a fake visa, as a domestic helper ay naku, taking care of other peoples children, while, across the ocean, her own baby cries herself to sleep? Talaga naman! She wants to earn good money and build us a house. Remember, I only work in a factory... Her father had always defended his wife, until recently, when all talk about her return was shelved. It seems she must extend her stay, because her employer might help her to become legal. Then she can come home for a visit and go back there to work some more

The lid clatters off the pot. Beneath her room, the kitchen is stirring again. Rica sits up on the bed the big one has returned? But she made sure the pot and plates were clean, even the cups, before she went to bed. She turns off the lamp to listen in the dark. Expectant ears, hungry for the phones overseas beep. Her mother used to call each month and write her postcards, also long love letters, even if she couldnt read yet. With happy snaps, of course. Earlier this year, she sent one of herself and the new baby of her employer. Cutlery noise. Does she also check them? This has never happened before, her coming back after a lean meal. Perhaps, shes licking a spoon for any trace of saltiness, searching between the prongs of a fork. Unknown to Rica, Big Lady is wise, an old hand in this business. She senses that theres more to a mouthful of sadness than meets the tongue. A whisper of salt, even the smallest nudge to the palate, can betray a century of hidden grief. Perhaps, she understands that, for all its practice, humanity can never conceal the daily act of futility at the dinner table. As we feed continually, we also acknowledge the perennial nature of our hunger. Each time we bring food to our mouths, the gut emptiness that we attempt to fill inevitably contaminates our cutlery, plates, cups, glasses, our whole table. It is this residual contamination, our individual portions of grief, that she eats, so we do not die from them but what if we dont eat? Then we can claim self sufficiency, a fullness from birth, perhaps. Then we wont betray our hunger. But Rica was not philosophical at four years old, when she had to be cajoled, tricked, ordered, then scolded severely before she finished her meal, if she touched it at all. Rica understood her occasional hunger strikes quite simply. She knew that these dinner quarrels with her father, and sometimes her aunties, ensured dire consequences. Each following day, she always made stick drawings of Big Lady with an ever increasing girth, as she was sure the lady had had a big meal the night before. Mouth curved downward, shes sad like her meals. No, she wears a smile, shes happy because shes always full. Sharp eyes, they can see in the dark, light bulb eyes, and big teeth for chewing forever. She can hardly walk, because her bellys so heavy, shes pregnant with leftovers. No, she doesnt walk, she flies like a giant cloud and shes not heavy at all, she only looks heavy. And she doesnt want us to be sad, so she eats all our tears and sighs. But she cant starve, can she? Of course, she likes sadness, its food. Fascination, fear and a kinship drawn from trying to save each other. Big Lady saves Rica from sadness; Rica saves Big Lady from bursting by not being sad. An ambivalent relationship, confusing, but certainly a source of comfort. And always Big Lady as object of attention. Those days when Rica drew stick drawings of her, she made sure the big one was always adorned with pretty baubles and make up. She even drew her with a Paris ribbon to tighten her belly. Then she added a chic hat to complete the picture. Crimson velvet with a black satin bow. Quite a change from all the girlie kitsch that her mother had dredged from Paris unfashionable side of town? The day it arrived in the mail, Rica was about to turn six. A perfect Parisienne winter hat for a tiny head in the tropics. It came with a bank draft for her party. She did not try it on, it looked strange, so different from the Barbies and pink paper rabbits. This latest gift was unlike her mother, something was missing. Rica turned it inside out, searching on TV, Magic Man can easily pull a rabbit or a dove out of his hat, just like that, always. But this tale was not part of her fathers repertoire. He told her not to be silly when she asked him to be Magic Man and pull out Paris but can she eat as far as Paris? Can she fly from here to there overnight? Are their rice pots also full of sad leftovers? How salty? Nowadays, her father makes sure he comes home late each night, so he wont have to answer the questions, especially about the baby in the photograph. So he need not to improvise further on his three year old tall tale. There it is again, the cutlery clunking against a plate or scraping the bottom of a cup? Shes searching for the hidden mouthfuls and platefuls and potfuls. Cupboards are opened. No, nothing there, big one, nothing Ricas eyes are glued shut. The sheets rise and fall with her breathing. She wants to leave the bed, sneak into the kitchen and check out this most unusual return and thoroughness. Thats the rice pot being overturned Her breaths make and unmake a hillock on the streets A plate shatters on the floor Back to a foetal curl, knees almost brushing chin Another plate crushes She screams

The pot is hurled against the wall She keeps screaming as she ruins out of the room, down to the kitchen And the cutlery, glasses, cups, more plates Big Ladys angry, Big Ladys hungry, Big Ladys turning the house upside down Breaking it everywhere Her throat is weaving sound, as if it were all that it never knew SHUT UP ! Big Lady wants to break all to get to the heart of the matter, where its the saltiest. In the vein of a plate, within the aluminium bottom of a pot, in the copper fold of a spoon, deep in the curve of a cups handle Ropes and ropes of scream I SAID, SHUT UP! Her cheek stings. She collapses on the floor before his feet. I didnt mean to, Dios ko po, I never meant to Her dazed eyes make out the broken plates, the dented pot, the shards of cups, glasses, the cutlery everywhere Hes hiccupping drunkenly all over her I didnt mean to, Rica, I love you, baby, Ill never let you go His voice is hoarse with anger and remorse. She came back, Papa She cant take you away from me Shes here again Just because shes legal now She might burst, Papa That whore - ! His hands curl into fists on her back. Big Lady knows, has always known. This feast will last her a lifetime, if she does not burst tonight.

Philippine's Francisco Arcellana is indeed a patriotic writer whose account of Mr. Angeles, the lead character in his story, "The Mats", is a picturesque of a sincere Filipino father and a husband who used the mat as the family's symbol of love for one another and whose obvious leanings are toward the upholding of the Filipino's culture and tradition. Arcellana successfully capsulized the Filipino family's way of life--their entanglement and disillusionment for each other but still steadfast in preserving good old memories with the young and even for the departed members of the family. CULTURAL ASPECT: The mats or "banig" in Philippine history traces back its importance in the 19th century when mats were made to order by families to be given as gifts for wedding, birthdays and other special occasions. Requiring expertise and creativity, the mat is made of buri (palm), pandan or sea grass leaves which are dried, usually dyed, then cut into strips and woven into mats, which may be plain or intricate. Mat weaving was a woman's work, a tradition that had been around for ages. FAMILY AND THE MATS: Arcellano was accurate when he wrote about the mats with a two-prong points conveyed: First, the Filipinos have strong family ties and second, the mats have bonded that tie till death as in the case of the Arcellana family. Mr. Angeles travelled to southern Philippines and bought mats for his wife and children. Each mat has the corresponding name of all his living offspring, even those who already died. When he arrived home from his trip, he presented the mats to his family. As he unfolds one mat after another, he narrated the emotions, longings and beautiful memories they have had as a family. The sorrow heightened when the last two mats he opened are for his dead children which made his wife reacted with grief, and told Mr.Angeles that there is no need for him to open those mats for the two were already dead. At that point, Mr. Angeles cried with pain while telling his wife that his children must always be in their memory no matter where they are now. A very sentimental write. Arcellana's story would indeed capture the Filipino readers by heart for his brilliant display of emotions by using only one symbolism--THE MAT.

The Mats By Francisco Arcellana For the Angeles family, Mr. Angeles'; homecoming from his periodic inspection trips was always an occasion for celebration. But his homecoming--from a trip to the South--was fated to be more memorable than, say, of the others. He had written from Mariveles: "I have just met a marvelous matweaver--a real artist--and I shall have a surprise for you. I asked him to weave a sleeping-mat for every one of the family. He is using many different colors and for each mat the dominant color is that of our respective birthstones. I am sure that the children will be very pleased. I know you will be. I can hardly wait to show them to you." Nana Emilia read the letter that morning, and again and again every time she had a chance to leave the kitchen. In the evening when all the children were home from school she asked her oldest son, Jos, to read the letter at dinner table. The children became very much excited about the mats, and talked about them until late into the night. This she wrote her husband when she labored over a reply to him. For days after that, mats continued to be the chief topic of conversation among the children. Finally, from Lopez, Mr. Angeles wrote again: "I am taking the Bicol Express tomorrow. I have the mats with me, and they are beautiful. God willing, I shall be home to join you at dinner." The letter was read aloud during the noon meal. Talk about the mats flared up again like wildfire. "I like the feel of mats," Antonio, the third child, said. "I like the smell of new mats." "Oh, but these mats are different," interposed Susanna, the fifth child. "They have our names woven into them, and in our ascribed colors, too." The children knew what they were talking about: they knew just what a decorative mat was like; it was not anything new or strange in their experience. That was why they were so excited about the matter. They had such a mat in the house, one they seldom used, a mat older than any one of them. This mat had been given to Nana Emilia by her mother when she and Mr. Angeles were married, and it had been with them ever since. It had served on the wedding night, and had not since been used except on special occasions. It was a very beautiful mat, not really meant to be ordinarily used. It had green leaf borders, and a lot of gigantic red roses woven into it. In the middle, running the whole length of the mat, was the lettering: Emilia y Jaime Recuerdo The letters were in gold. Nana Emilia always kept that mat in her trunk. When any one of the family was taken ill, the mat was brought out and the patient slept on it, had it all to himself. Every one of the children had some time in their lives slept on it; not a few had slept on it more than once. Most of the time the mat was kept in Nana Emilia's trunk, and when it was taken out and spread on the floor the children were always around to watch. At first there had been only Nana Emilia to see the mat spread. Then a child--a girl--watched with them. The number of watchers increased as more children came. The mat did not seem to age. It seemed to Nana Emilia always as new as when it had been laid on the nuptial bed. To the children it seemed as new as the first time it was spread before them. The folds and creases always new and fresh. The smell was always the smell of a new mat. Watching the intricate design was an endless joy. The children's pleasure at the golden letters even before they could work out the meaning was boundless. Somehow they were always pleasantly shocked by the sight of the mat: so delicate and so consummate the artistry of its weave. Now, taking out that mat to spread had become a kind of ritual. The process had become associated with illness in the family. Illness, even serious illness, had not been infrequent. There had been deaths... In the evening Mr. Angeles was with his family. He had brought the usual things home with him. There was a lot of fruits, as always (his itinerary carried him through the fruit-growing provinces): pineapples, lanzones, chicos, atis, santol, sandia, guyabano, avocado, according to the season. He had also brought home a jar of preserved sweets from Lopez. Putting away the fruit, sampling them, was as usual accomplished with animation and lively talk. Dinner was a long affair. Mr. Angeles was full of stories about his trip but would interrupt his tales with: "I could not sleep nights thinking of the young ones. They should never be allowed to play in the streets. And you older ones should not stay out too late at night."

The stories petered out and dinner was over. Putting away the dishes and wiping the dishes and wiping the table clean did not at all seem tedious. Yet Nana and the children, although they did not show it, were all on edge about the mats. Finally, after a long time over his cigar, Mr. Angeles rose from his seat at the head of the table and crossed the room to the corner where his luggage had been piled. From the heap he disengaged a ponderous bundle. Taking it under one arm, he walked to the middle of the room where the light was brightest. He dropped the bundle and, bending over and balancing himself on his toes, he strained at the cord that bound it. It was strong, it would not break, it would not give way. He tried working at the knots. His fingers were clumsy, they had begun shaking. He raised his head, breathing heavily, to ask for the scissors. Alfonso, his youngest boy, was to one side of him with the scissors ready. Nana Emilia and her eldest girl who had long returned from the kitchen were watching the proceedings quietly. One swift movement with the scissors, snip! and the bundle was loose. Turning to Nana Emilia, Mr. Angeles joyfully cried: "These are the mats, Miling." Mr. Angeles picked up the topmost mat in the bundle. "This, I believe, is yours, Miling." Nana Emilia stepped forward to the light, wiping her still moist hands against the folds of her skirt, and with a strange young shyness received the mat. The children watched the spectacle silently and then broke into delighted, though a little selfconscious, laughter. Nana Emilia unfolded the mat without a word. It was a beautiful mat: to her mind, even more beautiful than the one she received from her mother on her wedding. There was a name in the very center of it: EMILIA. The letters were large, done in green. Flowers--cadena-de-amor--were woven in and out among the letters. The border was a long winding twig of cadena-de-amor. The children stood about the spreading mat. The air was punctuated by their breathless exclamations of delight. "It is beautiful, Jaime; it is beautiful!" Nana Emilia's voice broke, and she could not say any more. "And this, I know, is my own," said Mr. Angeles of the next mat in the bundle. The mat was rather simply decorated, the design almost austere, and the only colors used were purple and gold. The letters of the name Jaime were in purple. "And this, for your, Marcelina." Marcelina was the oldest child. She had always thought her name too long; it had been one of her worries with regard to the mat. "How on earth are they going to weave all of the letters of my name into my mat?" she had asked of almost everyone in the family. Now it delighted her to see her whole name spelled out on the mat, even if the letters were a little small. Besides, there was a device above her name which pleased Marcelina very much. It was in the form of a lyre, finely done in three colors. Marcelina was a student of music and was quite a proficient pianist. "And this is for you, Jos." Jos was the second child. He was a medical student already in the third year of medical school. Over his name the symbol of Aesculapius was woven into the mat. "You are not to use this mat until the year of your internship," Mr. Angeles was saying. "This is yours, Antonia." "And this is yours, Juan." "And this is yours, Jesus." Mat after mat was unfolded. On each of the children's mats there was somehow an appropriate device. At least all the children had been shown their individual mats. The air was filled with their excited talk, and through it all Mr. Angeles was saying over and over again in his deep voice:

"You are not to use these mats until you go to the University." Then Nana Emilia noticed bewilderingly that there were some more mats remaining to be unfolded. "But Jaime," Nana Emilia said, wondering, with evident repudiation, "there are some more mats." Only Mr. Angeles seemed to have heard Nana Emilia's words. He suddenly stopped talking, as if he had been jerked away from a pleasant fantasy. A puzzled, reminiscent look came into his eyes, superseding the deep and quiet delight that had been briefly there, and when he spoke his voice was different. "Yes, Emilia," said Mr. Angeles, "There are three more mats to unfold. The others who aren't here..." Nana Emilia caught her breath; there was a swift constriction in her throat; her face paled and she could not say anything. The self-centered talk of the children also died. There was a silence as Mr. Angeles picked up the first of the remaining mats and began slowly unfolding it. The mat was almost as austere in design as Mr. Angeles' own, and it had a name. There was no symbol or device above the name; only a blank space, emptiness. The children knew the name. But somehow the name, the letters spelling the name, seemed strange to them. Then Nana Emilia found her voice. "You know, Jaime, you didn't have to," Nana Emilia said, her voice hurt and surely frightened. Mr. Angeles held his tears back; there was something swift and savage in the movement. "Do you think I'd forgotten? Do you think I had forgotten them? Do you think I could forget them? "This is for you, Josefina! "And this is for you, Victoria! "And this is for you, Concepcion." Mr. Angeles called the names rather than uttered them. "Don't, Jaime, please don't," was all that Nana Emilia managed to say. "Is it fair to forget them? Would it be just to disregard them?" Mr. Angeles demanded rather than asked. His voice had risen shrill, almost hysterical; it was also stern and sad, and somehow vindictive. Mr. Angeles had spoken almost as if he were a stranger. Also, he had spoken as if from a deep, grudgingly-silent, long-bewildered sorrow. The children heard the words exploding in the silence. They wanted to turn away and not see the face of their father. But they could neither move nor look away; his eyes held them, his voice held them where they were. They seemed rooted to the spot. Nana Emilia shivered once or twice, bowed her head, gripped her clasped hands between her thighs. There was a terrible hush. The remaining mats were unfolded in silence. The names which were with infinite slowness revealed, seemed strange and stranger still; the colors not bright but deathly dull; the separate letters, spelling out the names of the dead among them, did not seem to glow or shine with a festive sheen as did the other living names.