Philippine Great Story

IIustrado

By: Miguel Syjuco

The novel opens with a prologue, signed by “Miguel,” summarizing the life of his mentor and
former professor Crispin Salvador, a famous Filipino writer who fled the country in 1972. A teacher at
Columbia University, he was recently found dead in New York City. While his death has been ruled a
suicide, Miguel remains convinced that he was murdered. At the time of his death, Salvador was close to
finishing a new book, 20 years in the making, entitled The Bridges Ablaze, in which he described “the
generations-long ties of the Filipino elite to cronyism, illegal logging, gambling, kidnapping, corruption,
along with their related component sins.” This manuscript was found to be missing from Salvador’s
possessions at the time of his death.

Miguel sets out to investigate his mentor’s death and to produce an account of his life and work.
His first clue is a single page of Salvador’s manuscript, mentioning several names, including notable
figures of the literati and political clans of the Philippines. Someone named “Dulcinea” is also
mentioned.

Miguel flies to Manila to interview these people. On the plane, he overhears fellow passengers
talking about a migrant worker named Wigberto Lakandula, whose girlfriend was murdered by her
employers. Lakandula has sworn vengeance against the wealthy Changcos family and become a popular
hero.

As he lands, Miguel witnesses an explosion at a factory. He learns that this factory was run by
PhilFirst, a corporation that bribes politicians to overlook its appalling safety record.

Miguel interviews Salvador’s sister, Lena, who fills him in on Salvador’s early life as a member of
the Filipino elite: “Just your typical rich family,” she explains, while a maid fans her. Salvador, she
explains, disliked their father’s lack of scruples. Nevertheless, “You can’t govern well if you have
scruples,” Lena concludes.

From Lena, Miguel learns that “Dulcinea” is his mentor’s illegitimate daughter. Lena suggests
that Miguel speak to an old family friend Miss Florentina to find out more. That night, Miguel meets up
with some old friends and goes clubbing. He takes cocaine for the first time in many years.

The next day, at a book launch, he meets and falls for a young woman named Sadie Gonzalez.
Sadie suggests that her mother—a big Salvador fan—might have some useful information. Miguel
eagerly accepts her invitation to dinner, but it doesn’t go well.
 Miss Florentina tells Miguel where to find Dulcinea. Later, at the theatre, Miguel is due to meet
Marcel Avellaneda, a political journalist and an old friend of Salvador’s, but Marcel doesn’t arrive. While
Miguel is out clubbing with Sadie, a typhoon hits the city and the streets are flooded. Sadie and Miguel
are stranded. Miguel sees two children floating down the road on an ice-cream truck, and he climbs out
of the car to rescue them. He falls into an open manhole and dies.

The remainder of the novel is narrated by Salvador. In the first person, Salvador describes his
feelings about Miguel’s death. In the third person, Salvador imagines that Miguel survived his fall and
continued his story. This third-person voice takes over and describes Miguel flying to “Isla Dulcinea” to
meet Dulcinea.

Miguel arrives at the island. It is a paradisiac place, and Dulcinea’s house is beautiful, isolated—
and empty. She is not there, and the manuscript boxes where Miguel had hoped to find The Bridges
Ablaze are empty.

Salvador narrates the epilogue in the first person. He recalls a morning in February, on which he
learned of Miguel’s death. Though the two men were not especially close, Salvador found himself
unable to stop thinking about Miguel’s death—resulting in the novel that we have just read.

Ilustrado serves as an introduction to Filipino history and politics, but it is also an exploration of
the writer’s life, and the challenges faced by political artists everywhere. “Spiced with surprises and
leavened with uproariously funny moments, it is punctuated with serious philosophical musings”.

Biography

Miguel Syjuco

Miguel Syjuco, from Manila, is the author of Ilustrado, the debut novel which won the 2008 Man
Asian Literary Prize as well as the Palanca Award, the Philippines' highest literary honor. Born into a
political family, Miguel ran away to become a writer and has eked out a living as a medical guinea pig, B-
movie extra, eBay power seller of ladies' designer handbags, and an assistant to a bookie at the
horseraces.

He has done work for major international publications, most recently as a copy editor at The
Montreal Gazette, and has a weekly book-review column called the Biblio-File on CBC's Radio Canada
International. He has a master's degree in creative writing from Columbia University and is completing a
PhD in English literature from the University of Adelaide in Australia. Miguel's current literary writing
explores the possibilities of narrative fiction and examines the complexities of a Third World society
involved in reckless decay and hopeful progress.

Some of his goals in life are to have everyone be able to pronounce his surname properly (see-
hoo-coh) and to introduce the world to the storied Philippine culture that is far more than just domestic
helpers, Imelda Marcos and the guy who shot Versace. Part of the peripatetic millions-strong Filipino
diaspora, he has temporarily alighted in Montreal.

Asian Great Story

Three Sisters

By: Bi Feiyu

The arrival of Yumi brought the story to a climax. After the women had taken her brother away
from her they opened a path to her home and dragged her along it. This was a scene they had been
awaiting for a long time, and once it had been acted out they would all breathe easier. So they walked
her home, one step at a time; she didn't have to do anything but lean back and let the others do all the
work. When she reached the gate her courage abandoned her and she refused to take another step. A
couple of the bolder young maidens pushed her up until she was standing right in front of Peng
Guoliang.

The crowd thought he might actually salute her, but he didn't. Nor did he snap to attention. He
was, in fact, barely able to stand, as he just kept opening and closing his mouth. When Yumi sneaked a
look at him, the expression on his face put her at ease, though she was fidgeting bashfully. Beet-red
cheeks made her eyes seem darker than ever, sparkling as they tried to hide from view. To the villagers
outside the door she was a pitiful sight; they could hardly believe that the bashful girl they were looking
at was actually Yumi. In the end, it seemed, she was just a girl. So, with a few lusty shouts from the
crowd, the climax passed and the tense mood dissipated. Of course they were happy for Peng Guoliang,
but it was Yumi who was really on their minds.
 Wang Lianfang walked out to treat the men in the crowd to cigarettes and even offered one to
the son of Zhang Rujun, who was cradled in his mother's arms, looking foolish as only a baby boy can.
Wang tucked the cigarette behind the boy's ear. 'Take it home and give it to your daddy,' he said. They'd
never seen him be so polite, though clearly that was meant as a joke. A chorus of laughter made for a
delightful atmosphere before Wang shooed the crowd away and, with a sigh of relief, shut the door
behind them.

Shi Guifang sent Peng Guoliang and Yumi into the kitchen to boil some water. As an experienced
housewife, she knew the importance of a kitchen to a young couple. First meetings always turned out
the same, with a pair of shy and unfamiliar youngsters seated behind the stove, one pumping the
bellows while the other added firewood, until the heat turned their faces red and slowly loosened them
up. So Guifang opened the kitchen door and told Yuying and Yuxiu to go somewhere else. The last thing
she wanted was for the other girls to hang around the house. Except for Yumi, not one of her daughters
knew how to behave around people.

While Yumi was lighting a fire, Peng Guoliang gave her a second gift. The first, in accordance
with an age-old custom, had to be a bolt of fabric, some knitting yarn, or something along those lines. By
coming with a second set of gifts, he showed himself to be different from others. He gave her a red-
barrelled Hero-brand fountain pen and a bottle of Hero-brand blue-black ink, a pad of forty-weight letter
paper, twenty-five envelopes, and a Chairman Mao pin that glowed in the dark. There was a hint of
intimacy attached to all the gifts, each of which, at the same time, represented a cultured and
progressive spirit. He placed them all on top of the bellows, beside which he had laid his army cap, with
a star that shone bright and deep red. With all these items arrayed on the bellows, silence spoke more
loudly than words. Peng Guoliang worked the bellows, each forceful squeeze heating up the fire in the
stove. Flames rose into the air, like powerful pillars, moving from side to side each time he brought his
hands together. For her part, Yumi added rice straw to the pillars of fire, moving in concert with him, as
if by design, and creating a moving tableau. When the straw fell from the fire tongs onto the flames, it
first leaped into the air, then wilted and turned transparent before finally regaining colour and creating
both heat and light. The two stove tenders' faces and chests reddened rhythmically from the flames;
their breathing and the rising and falling of their chests, too, had a rhythmic quality, though both
required adjustments and extra control. The air was so hot and in constant oscillation it was as if a
private sun hung above each of their heads, all but baking them, in jubilant fashion, a sort of heated
tenderness. Their emotions were in chaos, rising and falling in their breasts. There was confusion, at
least a little, and something in the air that could easily have led to tears, here one moment and then
gone the next. Yumi knew she was in love, and as she gazed into the fire, she couldn't stop the flow of
warm tears. Peng Guoliang noticed, but said nothing. Taking out his handkerchief, he laid it on Yumi's
knee. But instead of using it to dry her tears, she held it up to her nose. It smelled faintly of bath soap,
and nearly made her cry out loud. She managed to hold back, but that only increased the flow of tears.
Up to that moment they hadn't exchanged a single word and hadn't touched one another, not even a
finger. That suited Yumi perfectly. This is what love is supposed to be, she told herself, quietly sitting
close but not touching, somewhat remote but in silent harmony. Close at hand, though longing in
earnest and calling to mind some distant place. As it should be.

Yumi's glance fell on Peng Guoliang's foot, which she could see was a size 42. No question about
it. She already knew his sizes, all of them. When a girl falls for a boy, her eyes become measuring tape.
Her gaze stretches out to take a measurement, then, when that's done, snaps right back.
 Custom dictated that Peng Guoliang not stay under the same roof before Yumi became his wife.
But Wang Lianfang was in the habit of breaking rules and dedicated to transforming social traditions.
'You'll stay here,' he announced. He took great pleasure in seeing Peng Guoliang walk in and out of the
yard; his presence created an aura of power around the house and brought him high honour. 'It's not
proper,' Shi Guifang said softly. Wang Lianfang glared at her and said sternly, 'That's metaphysical
nonsense.'

So Peng Guoliang took up residence in the Wang home and stayed put. When he wasn't eating
or sleeping, he spent his time behind the stove with Yumi. What a wonderful spot that was. A sacred
spot for village lovers. He and Yumi were talking by this time, though the strain on her was considerable,
since words in the national dialect, putonghua, kept cropping up in his speech. She loved the way it
sounded, even if she hadn't mastered it, because those few added words conjured up distant places, a
whole different world, and were made for talk between lovers. On this particular evening the fire in the
belly of the stove slowly died out and darkness crept over them, frightening her. But this sense of fright
was augmented with complicated feelings of hope and anxiety. Budding love is cloaked in darkness,
since there is no road map to show where it's headed; neither partner knows how or where to start, and
that usually makes for awkward situations. They maintained a respectful distance out of fear of
touching, absorbed in feelings of anxiety.

Peng Guoliang reached out and took Yumi's hand. At last, they were holding hands. Admittedly,
she was a little scared, but this was what she'd been waiting for. Letting Guoliang hold her hand instilled
in her the satisfaction of a job well done, and a sigh of relief emanated from the depths of her heart.
Strictly speaking, she was not holding his hand; her hand was caught in his. At first his fingers were stiff
and unbending, but slowly they came to life, and when that happened they turned wilful, sliding in
between hers, only to back out, unhappily, seemingly in failure. But back they came. The movements of
his hand were so new to Yumi that she had trouble breathing. Then without warning, he put his arms
around her and covered her lips with his.

Biography

Bi Feiyu

Bi Feiyu is one of the most respected authors and screenwriters in China today. He was born in
1964 in Xinghua, in the province of Jiangsu. A journalist and poet as well as a novelist, he has been
awarded a number of literary prizes, including the Lu Xun Prize for 1995–96. He cowrote the film
Shanghai Triad, which was directed by the acclaimed Zhang Yimou. Three Sisters is translated by Howard
Goldblatt and Sylvia Li-chun Lin.
 American Great Story
The Gift of the Magi

By O. Henry

The Gift of the Magi is a well-known short story by American short story writer O. Henry, the
pen name of William Sydney Porter. The story first appeared in The New York Sunday World on
December 10, 1905 and was later published in O. Henry's collection The Four Million on April 10, 1906.

The story tells of a young married couple, James, known as Jim, and Della Dillingham. The couple
has very little money and lives in a modest apartment. Between them, they have only two possessions
that they consider their treasures: Jim's gold pocket watch that belonged to his father and his
grandfather, and Della's lustrous, long hair that falls almost to her knees.

It's Christmas Eve, and Della finds herself running out of time to buy Jim a Christmas present.
After paying all of the bills, all Della has left is $1.87 to put toward Jim's Christmas present. Desperate to
find him the perfect gift, out she goes into the cold December day, looking in shop windows for
something she can afford.

She wants to buy Jim a chain for his pocket watch, but they're all out of her price range. Rushing
home, Della pulls down her beautiful hair and stands in front of the mirror, admiring it and thinking.
After a sudden inspiration, she rushes out again and has her hair cut to sell. Della receives $20.00 for
selling her hair, just enough to buy the platinum chain she saw in a shop window for $21.00. When Jim
comes home from work, he stares at Della, trying to figure out what's different about her. She admits
that she sold her hair to buy his present. Before she can give it to him, however, Jim casually pulls a
package out of his overcoat pocket and hands it to her. Inside, Della finds a pair of costly decorative hair
combs that she'd long admired, but are now completely useless since she's cut off her hair. Hiding her
tears, she jumps up and holds out her gift for Jim: the watch chain. Jim shrugs, flops down onto the old
sofa, puts his hands behind his head and tells Della flatly that he sold his watch to buy her combs.

The story ends with a comparison of Jim and Della's gifts to the gifts that the Magi, or three wise
men, gave to Baby Jesus in the manger in the biblical story of Christmas. The narrator concludes that Jim
and Della are far wiser than the Magi because their gifts are gifts of love, and those who give out of love
and self-sacrifice are truly wise because they know the value of self-giving love.
Biography

O. Henry

O. Henry was an American writer whose short stories are known for wit, wordplay and clever
twist endings. He wrote nearly 600 stories about life in America.

He was born William Sidney Porter on September 11, 1862, in Greensboro, North Carolina. His
father, Algernon Sidney Porter, was a medical doctor. When William was three his mother died and he
was raised by his grandmother and aunt. He left school at the age of 15 and then had a number of jobs,
including bank clerk. In 1896 he was accused of embezzlement. He absconded from the law to New
Orleans and later fled to Honduras. When he learned that his wife was dying, he returned to US and
surrendered to police. Although there has been much debate over his actual guilt, he was convicted of
embezzling funds from the bank that employed him, he was sentenced to 5 years in jail. In 1898 he was
sent to the penitentiary at Columbus, Ohio.

While in prison he began writing short stories in order to support his young daughter Margaret.
His first published story was "Whistling Dick's Christmas Stocking" (1899). He used a pseudonym, Olivier
Henry, only once and changed his pen name to O. Henry, not wanting his readers to know he was in jail.
He published 12 stories while in prison. After serving 3 years of the five-year sentence, he was released
for good behavior. He moved to New York City in 1902 and wrote a story a week for the New York
World, and also for other publishers. His first collection of stories was "Cabbages and Kings" (1904). The
next collection, "The Four Million" (1906), included his well-known stories "The Gift of the Magi", "The
Skylight Room" and "The Green Door". One of his last stories, "The Ransom of Red Chief" (1910), is
perhaps the best known of his works. Among its film adaptations are Ruthless People (1986) with Danny
DeVito and Bette Midler, The Ransom of Red Chief (1998), The Ransom of Red Chief (1911) and Business
People (1963) (aka "Business People") by director Leonid Gaidai, starring Georgiy Vitsin and Yuriy
Nikulin.

In his lifetime O. Henry was able to see the silent film adaptations of his stories; The Sacrifice
(1909), Trying to Get Arrested (1909) and His Duty (1909). His success brought the attendant pressure,
and he suffered from alcohol addiction. His second marriage lasted 2 years, and his wife left him in 1909.
He died of cirrhosis of the liver, on June 5, 1910, in New York, New York. O. Henry is credited for
creation of The Cisco Kid, whose character alludes to Robin Hood and Don Quixote. The Arizona Kid
(1930) and The Cisco Kid (1931) are among the best known adaptations of his works.
English Great Stories
THE TELL-TALE HEART

by Edgar Allan Poe

True! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I
am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled them. Above all was the
sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell.
How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily --how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me
day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never
wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was
this! He had the eye of a vulture --a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my
blood ran cold; and so by degrees --very gradually --I made up my mind to take the life of the old man,
and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me.
You should have seen how wisely I proceeded --with what caution --with what foresight --with what
dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I
killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it --oh so gently!
And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed,
that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly
I thrust it in! I moved it slowly --very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took
me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his
bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I
undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously --cautiously (for the hinges creaked) --I undid it just so
much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights --every night
just at midnight --but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was
not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly
into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring
how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to
suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute
hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers
--of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the
door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the
idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think
that I drew back --but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were
close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door,
and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily. I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my
thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out --"Who's there?" I
kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did
not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; --just as I have done, night after night,
hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan
of pain or of grief --oh, no! --it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when
overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it
has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I
say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that
he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had
been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had
been saying to himself --"It is nothing but the wind in the chimney --it is only a mouse crossing the
floor," or "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort
himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching
him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful
influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel --although he neither saw nor heard --to
feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open
a little --a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it --you cannot imagine how stealthily,
stealthily --until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and
fell full upon the vulture eye. It was open --wide, wide open --and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw
it with perfect distinctness --all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my
bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by
instinct, precisely upon the damned spot. And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is
but over-acuteness of the sense? --now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a
watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's
heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried
how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased.
It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been
extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! --do you mark me well I have told you that I am
nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so
strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and
stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety
seized me --the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I
threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once --once only. In an instant I dragged
him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done.
But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would
not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and
examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there
many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took
for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I
dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs. I then took up three planks from
the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so
cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye --not even his --could have detected any thing wrong. There
was nothing to wash out --no stain of any kind --no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A
tub had caught all --ha! ha! When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock --still dark as
midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open
it with a light heart, --for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves,
with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night;
suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the
officers) had been deputed to search the premises. I smiled, --for what had I to fear? I bade the
gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent
in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search --search well. I led them, at
length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my
confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I
myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath
which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat,
and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and
wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted.
The ringing became more distinct: --It continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get
rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness --until, at length, I found that the noise was
not within my ears. No doubt I now grew very pale; --but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened
voice. Yet the sound increased --and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound --much such a
sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath --and yet the officers heard it
not. I talked more quickly --more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about
trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they
not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of
the men --but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed --I raved --I swore! I
swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over
all and continually increased. It grew louder --louder --louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and
smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! --no, no! They heard! --they suspected! --they
knew! --they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was
better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical
smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now --again! --hark! louder! louder! louder!
louder!

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the planks! here, here! --It
is the beating of his hideous heart!"
BIOGRAPHY

Edgar Allan Poe

1849 "Annie" daguerreotype of Poe

Born January 19, 1809

Boston, Massachusetts, U.S.

Died October 7, 1849 (aged 40)

Baltimore, Maryland, U.S.

Alma mater University of Virginia

United States Military Academy

Spouse Virginia Eliza Clemm Poe

Edgar Allan Poe (/poʊ/; born Edgar Poe; January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849) was an American
writer, poet, editor, and literary critic. Poe is best known for his poetry and short stories, particularly his
tales of mystery and the macabre. He is widely regarded as a central figure of Romanticism in the United
States and of American literature as a whole, and he was one of the country's earliest practitioners of
the short story. He is also generally considered the inventor of the detective fiction genre and is further
credited with contributing to the emerging genre of science fiction.[1] Poe was the first well-known
American writer to earn a living through writing alone, resulting in a financially difficult life and career.
[2]

Poe was born in Boston, the second child of actors David and Elizabeth "Eliza" Poe.[3] His father
abandoned the family in 1810, and his mother died the following year. Thus orphaned, Poe was taken in
by John and Frances Allan of Richmond, Virginia. They never formally adopted him, but he was with
them well into young adulthood. Tension developed later as Poe and John Allan repeatedly clashed over
Poe's debts, including those incurred by gambling, and the cost of Poe's education. Poe attended the
University of Virginia but left after a year due to lack of money. He quarreled with Allan over the funds
for his education and enlisted in the United States Army in 1827 under an assumed name. It was at this
time that his publishing career began with the anonymous collection Tamerlane and Other Poems
(1827), credited only to "a Bostonian". Poe and Allan reached a temporary rapprochement after the
death of Allan's wife in 1829. Poe later failed as an officer cadet at West Point, declaring a firm wish to
be a poet and writer, and he ultimately parted ways with Allan.

Poe switched his focus to prose and spent the next several years working for literary journals
and periodicals, becoming known for his own style of literary criticism. His work forced him to move
among several cities, including Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York City. He married his 13-year-old
cousin, Virginia Clemm, in 1836, but Virginia died of tuberculosis in 1847. In January 1845, Poe published
his poem "The Raven" to instant success. He planned for years to produce his own journal The Penn
(later renamed The Stylus), but before it could be produced, he died in Baltimore on October 7, 1849, at
age 40. The cause of his death is unknown and has been variously attributed to disease, alcoholism,
substance abuse, suicide, and other causes.[4]

Poe and his works influenced literature around the world, as well as specialized fields such as
cosmology and cryptography. He and his work appear throughout popular culture in literature, music,
films, and television. A number of his homes are dedicated museums today. The Mystery Writers of
America present an annual award known as the Edgar Award for distinguished work in the mystery
genre.
OWN STORY
“COVID-19”

Sa nakaraang mga buwan simula nang

lockdown dahil sa pandemyang “COVID-19” maraming naantalang negosyo at trabaho sa buong mundo.
Ilan dito ay ang hanapbuhay ng aking ama ang pagiging tricycle driver at ang trabaho ng aking
nakakatandang kapatid sa isang hotel sa Cebu. Silang dalawa ay nawalan ng trabaho. Napagdesisyunan
nang aking buong pamilya na huminto nalang sila sa pagtatrabaho dahil sa kakulangan sa kita at
syempre para na rin sa kaligtasan nila.

Dahil dito, naghanap ng alternatibong paraan ang aking mga magulang para matustusan ang
aming mga pangangailangan sa araw-araw lalong-lalo na sa pinansyal. Ang aming lugar ay malapit sa
dagat kaya ang unang napag isipan naming gawin ay ang pagbili ng mga isda sa kalapit isla kaya naman
sa konting ipon ng aking mga magulang ay nakabili kami ng Bangka para magamit bilang transportasyon
sa dagat. Hindi na ganuon nahirapan ang aking ama sa ganung trabaho dahil noong bata pa ako ay iyon
ang dating trabaho niya.
 Sa pandemyang ito, naranasan ko kung gaano kahirap maghanap ng
pera. Araw-araw tumutulong ako sa aking ama, gumigising ng madaling
araw para tulungan siya sa pagbuhat ng Bangka patungong dagat, bandang
tanghali naman pagka uwi niya ako rin ang naghahatid na mga isda sa
palengke o sa bahay-bahay. Dahil sa karanasang ito, napag isip-isip ko na
mag pursige pa lalo sa aking pag-aaral dahil hindi lahat nabibigyan ng
pagkakataon na pagdilat nila parang sinubuan na sila ng ginto. Kayat
hanggang may pagkakataon pa tayo na sinusuportaan tayo ng ating
magulang magsikap tayo upang makatapos sa pag aaral.

Ang laki ng respeto ko sa lahat ng mga magulang sa pagsasakripisyo

nila mag araw para lamang matustusan ang pangangailangan ng mga anak. Hindi madali ang kanilang
tungkulin na kanilang ginagampanan kaya naman tanawin sana natin itong utang na loob sa kanila. Sa
pagtatapos ng pag-aaral alam kong masusuklian ko ang aking mga magulang, konting kembot pa’t alam
kong matutupad ko rin ang kanilang mga pangarap para sa akin.

Ang pandemyang ating nararanasan ngayon ay isa lamang instrumento para mas maging
matatag ang samahan ng ating pamilya at para mas maging mahigpit ang pananampalataya natin sa
Diyos. Seryosohin sana natin ang nangyayari ngayon at maging isang produktibo at kapaki pakinabang
hindi lamang sa pamilya kundi sa buong mundo.
 JURHYM R. DOTE
BIOGRAPHY

Jurhym Romero Dote was born at Inabanga, Bohol on April 6,2000. He is currently a third year
student at Bohol Island State University- Main Campus. He has a lot of ambitions in life not just for
imself but also for his family and to those people who are in need.

Since when he was young he knows how to be independent especially when it comes to
household chores and taking care of his younger siblings because at a young age his mother went
abroad to earn a living that’s why he make sure that he can took care of himself as well as his younger
brother.

His hobbies are playing basketball, online games, watching videos and of course studying. For
him, to achieve his goals in life, he works hard everyday not just in school but also in their house by
helping his family.

Jurhym doesn’t had a lot of achievements yet but as time passes he grows as a good person who
face challenges and most importantly with trust and guidance in God.