LIT 202 - Survey of Philippine Literature in English

A Module in LIT 202 – A SURVEY OF PHILIPPINE LITERATURE IN ENGLISH ● 2021
Module in
LIT 202:
A Survey of Philippine Literature
in English
Prepared by:
Asst. Prof. Joshua B. Tupas
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Unit I INTRODUCTION TO LITERATURE
The word literature is derived from the Latin term litera which means letter. It has been
defined differently by various writers. Some loosely interpret literature as any printed
matter written within a book, a magazine or a pamphlet. Others define literature as a
faithful reproduction of man’s manifold experiences blended into one harmonious
expression. Because literature deals with ideas, thoughts and emotions of man, literature
can be said to be the story of man. Man’s loves, griefs, thoughts, dreams and
aspirations coached in beautiful language is literature.
In order to know the history of a nation’s spirit, one must read its literature. Hence it is,
that to understand the real spirit of a nation, one must “trace the little rills as they
course along down the ages, broadening and deepening into the great ocean of thought
which men of the present source are presently exploring.” Brother Azurin, said that
“literature expresses the feelings of people to society, to the government, to his
surroundings, to his fellowmen and to his Divine Creator.”The expression of one’s
feelings, according to him, may be through love, sorrow, happiness, hatred, anger, pity,
contempt, or revenge.
Learning Outcomes
At the end of the unit, you must have:
1. identified and discussed substantially the functions of literature;

2. distinguished the different critical lenses used in analyzing literary works;
3. listed down chronologically the time frames in Philippine Literature in
English;
4. described the types of literature that flourished during different periods of
Philippine Literature in English; and
5. identified the authorial and text styles in the studied Philippine
masterpieces in English
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1.1 Functions of Literature

Literature definition is the desire of people to convey their own knowledge, experience,
vision through written texts. It can be concluded that literature is a storehouse of human
knowledge in a printed and accessible form. The following are the functions of literature:
Knowledge sharing
This is the most basic and important function of literature. We can learn many new
things about the world with its help; we can fill ourselves with knowledge and become
smarter.
Upbringing
Literature affects the feelings and outlook of a person. Why do we read fairy tales in
childhood? Well, mostly because they clearly distinguish between good and evil, which
helps children to understand what is good and what is bad from early age. Thanks to
artistic images, authors convey basic educational principles to the child.
Сommunication
First of all, it is the communication between

the reader and the author. Very often, we are
impressed by some characters and do not like
others. We can agree with a point of view of
the author and we can disagree with it
altogether. Also, a book can be a topic for
discussion with your friends and
acquaintances.
Entertainment
Even though we live in the digital age with all forms of entertainment at our fingertips, a
lot of people still enjoy reading books to entertain themselves. After all, books can take
you anywhere without you even leaving your couch and they can provide you with hours
of fun. They don't even have to be fiction, some folks get a kick out of reading
construction manuals :)
Shaping the aesthetic taste
Literature helps us to form our own vision of beauty, it pleasantly influences us,
changing our behavior in society and attitude towards people in general. Literature helps
us to notice everything beautiful around us.
Self-development
Literature helps us to develop ourselves. Thanks to books, articles, magazines, we have

the opportunity to fill ourselves with new knowledge, cultivate good qualities and strive
for something more.
Development of thought process
The more we know, the more we have the desire to tell others about it and find out
what they think about it. As the saying goes: "Truth is born in dispute," and so it is.
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People very often reflect on processes, events, knowledge, which they read and discuss
various issues with others.
Pleasure
We get pleasure every time from reading good verses or beautiful work, or a book with a
great plot, or other interesting facts and scientific literature. People spend a lot of time
looking for something that really brings them pleasure, and literature is something that
gives joy.
Shaping the speech
The more a person reads, the more words they learn, as well as different designs and
options for constructing sentences. People can enrich their vocabulary thanks to
literature.
Transformation
Our world is full of information and not all of it is good and beautiful, but with the help
of literature, we can transform bad memories into something beautiful. Thanks to
literature, banal things can be turned into something artistic, poetic and beautiful. How
much do you know about the various functions of literature? Thanks to literature, we can
study, be inspired, cry, laugh, enjoy and just have a good time.
https://www.legit.ng/1218547-10-functions-literature-about.html
1.2 The Different Time Frames in Philippine Literature in English

It can be said that Philippine literature in English has achieved a stature that is, in a way,
phenomenal since the inception of English in our culture. Our written literature, which is
about four hundred years old, is one of slow and evolutionary growth. Our writers
strove to express their sentiments while struggling with a foreign medium. The great
mass of literature in English that we have today is, indeed, a tribute to what our writers
have achieved in the short span of time. What they have written can compare with some
of the best works in the world.
Much is still to be achieved. Our writers have yet to write their OPUS MAGNUMS.
Meanwhile, history and literature are slowly unfolding before us and we are as witnesses
in the assembly lines to an evolving literary life.
Time frames may not be necessary in a study of literature, but since literature and
history are inescapably related it has become facilitative to map up a system which will
aid us in delineating certain time boundaries.
These time boundaries are not exactly well-defined; very often, time frames blend into
another in a seeming continuum. For a systematic discussion of the traditions, customs,
and feelings of our people that can be traced in our literature, we shall adopt certain
delimitations.
These time frames are: Time Frames of Philippine Literature in English Different opinions
prevail regarding the stages that mark the development of Philippine literature in
English. Let us take the following time frames for purpose of discussion:
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1. The Period of Re-orientation: 1898-1910

2. Period of Imitation: 1910-1925
3. Period of Self-Discovery: 1925-1941
4. Japanese Period: 1941-1945
5. The Rebirth of Freedom: 1946-1970
6. Period of Activism: 1970-1972
7. Period of the New Society: 1972-1981
8. Period of the Third Republic: 1981-1985
9. Contemporary Period: 1986
1.3 Types of Literature that flourished during the different

periods of Philippine Literature in English
Literature and history are closely interrelated. In discovering the history of a race, the
feelings, aspirations, customs and traditions of a people are sure to be included . . . and
these feelings, aspirations, customs and traditions that are written is literature. History
can also be written and this too, is literature. Events that can be written down are part
of true literature. Literature, therefore, is part of history.
Literature and history, however, also have differences. Literature may be figments of
the imagination or events devoid of truth that have been written down, while history is
made up of events that really happened. Literary Compositions that Have Influenced the
World. Among them are:
1. The Bible or the Sacred Writings

2. Koran
3. The Iliad and the Odyssey
4. The Mahab-harata
5. CanterburyTales
6. Uncle Tom’s Cabin
7. The Divine Comedy
8. El Cid Compeador
9. The Song of Roland
10. The Book of the Dead
11. The Book of the Days
12. One Thousand and One Nights or The Arabian Nights
Literature can generally be divided into two types; proseand poetry.
Prose consists of those written within the common flow of conversation in sentences and
paragraphs, while poetry refers to those expressions in verse, with measure and rhyme,
line and stanza and has a more melodious tone.
I. PROSE
There are many types of prose. These include the following:
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a. Novels. A long narrative divided into chapters and events are taken from true-to-
life stories. Example:WITHOUT SEEING THE DAWN by Stevan Javellana
b. Short story. This is a narrative involving one or more characters, one plot and
one single impression.Example:THE LAUGHTER OF MY FATHER by Carlos
Bulosan
c. Plays. This is presented on a stage, is divided into acts and each act has many
scenes.Example:THIRTEEN PLAYS by Wilfredo M. Guerrero
d. Legends. These are fictitious narratives, usually about origins. Example:THE
BIKOL LEGEND by Pio Duran
e. Fables. These are also fictitious and they deal with animals and inanimate
things who speak and act like people and their purpose is to enlighten the minds
of children to events that can mold their ways and attitudes. Example:THE
MONKEY AND THE TURTLE
f. Anecdotes. These are merely products of the writer’s imagination and the main
aim is to bring out lessons to the reader. Example:THE MOTH AND THE LAMP
g. Essay. This expresses the viewpoint or opinion of the writer about a particular
problem or event. The best example of this is the Editorial page of a
newspaper.
h. Biography. This deals with the life of a person which may be about himself, his
autobiography or that of others.Example:CAYETANO ARELLANO by Socorro O.
Albert
i. News. This is a report of everyday events in society, government, science and
industry, and accidents, happening nationally or not.
j. Oration. This is a formal treatment of a subject and is intended to be spoken in
public. It appeals to the intellect, to the will or to the emotions of the audience.
II. POETRY
There are three types of poetry and these are the following:
A. Narrative Poetry. This form describes important events in life either real or
imaginary. The different varieties are:
1. Epic. This is an extended narrative about heroic exploits often under

supernatural control. Example:THE HARVEST SONG OF ALIGUYON translated in
English by Amador T. Daguio
2. Metrical Tale. This is a narrative which is written in verse and can be

classified either as a ballad or a metrical romance.Examples:BAYANI NG BUKID
by Al Perez and HERO OF THE FIELDS by Al Perez
3. Ballads. Of the narrative poems, this is considered the shortest and

simplest. It has a simple structure and tells of a single incident. There are also
variations of these: love ballads, war ballads, and sea ballads, humorous, moral,
and historical or mythical ballads. In the early time, this referred to a song
accompanying a dance.
B. Lyric Poetry. Originally, this refers to that kind of poetry meant to be sung to the
accompaniment of a lyre, but now, this applies to any type of poetry that expresses
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emotions and feelings of the poet. They are usually short, simple and easy to
understand.
1. Folksongs (Awiting Bayan). These are short poems intended to be sung.

The common theme is love, despair, grief, doubt, joy, hope and sorrow.
Example:CHIT-CHIRIT-CHIT
2. Sonnets. This is a lyric poem of 14 lines dealing with an emotion, a feeling,

or an idea. These are two types: the Italian and the Shakespearean.
Example:SANTANG BUDS by Alfonso P. Santos
3. Elegy. This is a lyric poem which expresses feelings of grief and melancholy,
and whose theme is death. Example: THE LOVER’S DEATH by Ricaredo
Demetillo
4. Ode. This is a poem of a noble feeling, expressed with dignity, with no

definite number of syllables or definite number of lines in a stanza.
5. Psalms (Dalit). This is a song praising God or the Virgin Mary and containing
a philosophy of life.
6. Awit (Song). These have measures of twelve syllables (dodecasyllabic) and

slowly sung to the accompaniment of a guitar or banduria. Example:FLORANTE
AT LAURA by Franciso Balagtas
7. Corridos (Kuridos). These have measures of eight syllables (octosyllabic)

and recited to a martial beat. Example:IBONG ADARNA
C. Dramatic Poetry
1. Comedy. The word comedy comes from the Greek term “komos”meaning
festivity or revelry. This form usually is light and written with the purpose of
amusing, and usually has a happy ending.
2. Melodrama. This is usually used in musical plays with the opera. Today, this
is related to tragedy just as the farce is to comedy. It arouses immediate and
intense emotion and is usually sad but there is a happy ending for the principal
character.
3. Tragedy. This involves the hero struggling mightily against dynamic forces;
he meets death or ruin without success and satisfaction obtained by the
protagonist in a comedy.
4. Farce. This is an exaggerated comedy. It seeks to arouse mirth by

laughable lines; situations are too ridiculous to be true; the characters seem to
be caricatures and the motives undignified and absurd.
5. Social Poems. This form is either purely comic or tragic and it pictures the
life of today. It may aim to bring about changes in the social conditions.
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The Pre-Spanish Period

Long before the Spaniard and other foreigners landed on Philippine shores, our
forefathers already had their own literature stamped in the history of our race. Our
ancient literature shows our customs and traditions in everyday life as trace in our folk
stories, old plays and short stories. Our ancestors also had their own alphabet which was
different from that brought by the Spaniards. The first alphabet used by our ancestors
was similar to that of the Malayo-Polynesian alphabet.
Whatever record our ancestors left were either burned by the Spanish friars in the belief
that they were works of the devil or were written on materials that easily perished, like
the barks of trees, dried leaves and bamboo cylinders which could not have remained
undestroyed even if efforts were made to preserve them.
Other records that remained showed folk songs that proved existence of a native culture
truly our own. Some of these were passed on by word of mouth till they reached the
hands of some publishers or printers who took interest in printing the manuscripts of the
ancient Filipinos.
The Spaniards who came to the Philippines tried to prove that our ancestors were really
fond of poetry, songs, stories, riddles and proverbs which we still enjoy today and which
serve to show to generations the true culture of our people. Pre-Spanish Literature is
characterized by
A. LEGENDS. Legends are a form of prose the common theme of which is about
the origin of a thing, place, location or name. The events are imaginary, devoid
of truth and unbelievable. Old Filipino customs are reflected in these legends.
Its aim is to entertain. Here is an example of a legend is THE LEGEND OF THE
TAGALOGS.
B. FOLK TALES. Folk tales are made up of stories about life, adventure, love,
horror and humor where one can derive lessons about life. These are useful to
us because they help us appreciate our environment, evaluate our personalities
and improve our perspectives in life. An example of this is THE MOON AND THE
SUN.
C. THE EPIC AGE. Epics are long narrative poems in which a series of heroic
achievements or events, usually of a hero, are dealt with at length. Nobody can
determine which epics are the oldest because in their translations from other
languages, even in English and Spanish. We can only determine their origins
from the time mentioned in the said epics.
Aside from the aforementioned epics, there are still other epics that can be read
and studied like the following epics.
a. Bidasari-Moro epic
b. Biag ni Lam-ang-Ilokano epic
c. Maragtas-Visayan epic
d. Haraya-Visayan epic e. Lagda-Visayan epic
f. Hari sa Bukid-Visayan epic
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g. Kumintang-Tagalog epic
h. Parang Sabir-Moro epic
i. “Dagoy”at “Sudsod”-Tagbanua epic
j. Tatuaang-Bagobo epic
k. Indarapatra at Sulayman
l. Bantugan
m. Daramoke-A-Babay –Moro epic in “Darangan”
D. FOLK SONGS. Folk songs are one of the oldest forms of Philippine literature that
emerged in the pre-Spanish period. These songs mirrored the early forms of
culture. Many of these have 12 syllables. Here are the examples:
a. Kundiman
b. Kumintang o Tagumpay
c. Ang Dalit o Imno
d. Ang Oyayi o Hele
e. Diana
f. Soliraning
g. Talindaw
E. OTHER FORMS OF PRE-SPANISH POETRY E. Epigrams, Riddles, Chants,
Maxims, Proverbs or Sayings
1. Epigrams (Salawikain). These have been customarily used and served

as laws or rules on good behavior by our ancestors. To others, these
are like allegories or parables that impart lessons for the young.
2. Riddles (Bugtong) or Palaisipan. These are made up of one or more
measured lines with rhyme and may consist of four to 12 syllables.
3. Chant (Bulong). Used in witchcraft or enchantment.
4. Maxims. Some are rhyming couplets with verses of 5, 6 or 8 syllables,
each line having the same number of syllables.
5. Sayings (Kasabihan). Often used in teasing or to comment on a
person’s actuations.
6. Sawikain (Sayings with no hidden meanings)
The Spanish Period (1565-1898)

It is an accepted belief that the Spanish colonization of the Philippines started in 1565
during the time of Miguel Lopez de Legazpi, the first Spanish governor-general in the
Philippines. Literature started to flourish during his time. This spurt continued unabated
until the Cavite Revolt in 1872. The Spaniards colonized the Philippines for more than
three centuries. During these times, many changes occurred in the lives of Filipinos.
They embraced the Catholic religion, changed their names, and were baptized.
Their lifestyles changed too. They built houses mad of stones and bricks, used beautiful
furniture like the piano and used kitchen utensils. Carriages, trains and boats were used
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as means of travel. They held fiestas to honor the saints, the pope and the governors.
They had cockfights, horse races and the theater as means of recreation.
This gave rise to the formation of the different classes of society like the rich and the
landlords. Some Filipinos finished courses like medicine, law, agriculture and teaching.
Many Filipinos finished their schooling already had been established. •
A. SPANISH INFLUENCES ON PHILIPPINE LITERATURE
Due to the long period of colonization of the Philippines by the Spaniards, they have
exerted a strong influence on our literature.
1. The first Filipino alphabet called ALIBATA was replaced by the Roman alphabet.
2. The teaching of the Christian Doctrine became the basis of religious practices.
3. The Spanish language which became the literary language during this time lent
many of its words to our language.
4. European legends and traditions brought here became assimilated in our songs,
corridos, and moro-moros.
5. Ancient literature was collected and translated to Tagalog and other dialects.
6. Many grammar books were printed in Filipino, like Tagalog, Ilocano and Visayan
7. Our periodicals during these times gained a religious tone.
B. THE FIRST BOOKS
1. ANG DOCTRINA CRISTIANA (THE CHRISTIAN DOCTRINE). This was the first
book printed in the Philippines in 1593 in xylography. It was written by Fr. Juan
de Placencia and Fr. Domingo Nieva, in Tagalog and Spanish. It contained the
Pater Noster (Out Father), Ave Maria (Hail Mary), Regina Coeli (Hail Holy Queen),
the Ten Commandments of God, the Commandments of the Catholic Church, the
Seven Mortal Sins, How to Confess, and the Cathecism. Three old original copies
of this book can still be found at the Vatican, at the Madrid Musem and at the US
Congress. It contains only 87 pages but costs $5,000.0.
2. Nuestra Señora del Rosario. The second book printed in the Philippines was
written by Fr. Blancas de San Jose in 1602, and printed at the UST Printing Press
with the help of Juan de Vera, a Chinese mestizo. It contains the biographies of
saints, novenas, and questions and answers on religion.
3. Libro de los Cuatro Postprimeras de Hombre (in Spanish and Tagalog). This is
the first book printed in typography.
4. Ang Barlaan at Josephat. This is a Biblical story printed in the Philippines and
translated to Tagalog from Greek by Fr. Antonio de Borja. It is believed to be the
first Tagalog novel published in the Philippines even if it is only a translation.
The printed translation has only 556 pages. The Ilocano translation in poetry
was done by Fr. Agustin Mejia.
5. The Pasion. This is the book about the life and sufferings of Jesus Christ. It is
read only during Lent. There were 4 versions of this in Tagalog and each version
is according to the name of the writer. These are the Pilapil version (by Mariano
Pilapil of Bulacan, 1814), the de Belen version (by Gaspar Aquino de Belen of
Bat. in 1704), the de la Merced (by Aniceto de la Merced of Norzagaray, Bulacan
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in 1856) and the de Guia version (by Luis de Guia in 1750).Critics are not agreed
whether it is the Pilapil or the de la Merced version which is the most popular.
6. Urbana at Felisa. A book by Modesto de Castro, the so called Father of Classic
Prose in Tagalog. These are letters between two sisters Urbana at Felisa and
have influenced greatly the behavior of people in society because the letters
dealt with good behavior.
7. Ang Mga Dalit kay Maria (Psalms for Mary). A collection of songs praising the
Virgin Mary. Fr. Mariano Sevilla, a Filipino priest, wrote this in 1865 and it was
popular especially during the Maytime “Flores de Mayo”festival.
C. LITERARY COMPOSITIONS
1. Arte y Reglas de la Lengua Tagala (Art and rules of the Tagalog language).
Written by Fr. Blancas de San Jose and translated to Tagalog by Tomas Pinpin in
1610.
2. Compendio de la Lengua Tagala (Understanding the Tagalog language). Written
by Fr. Gaspar de San Agustin in 1703.
3. Vocabulario de la Lengua Tagala (Tagalog vocabulary). The first Tagalog
dictionary written by Fr. Pedro de San Buenaventura in 1613.
4. Vocabulario de la Lengua Pampanga (Pampanga vocabulary). The first book in
Pampanga written by Fr. Diego in 1732.
5. Vocabulario de la Lengua Bisaya (Bisayan vocabulary). The best language book
in Visayan by Mateo Sanchez in 1711. 6. Arte de la Lengua Ilokana (The Art of
the Ilocano language). The first Ilocano grammar book by Francisco Lopez. 7.
Arte de la Lengua Bicolana (The Art of the Bicol language). The first book in the
Bicol language and written by Fr. Marcos Lisbon in 1754.
D. FOLK SONGS
Folk songs became widespread in the Philippines. Each region had its national song
from the lowlands to the mountains of Luzon, Visayas and Mindanao.
Folk songs truly manifest the artistic feelings of the Filipinos. They show the Filipinos’
innate appreciation for and love of beauty. The examples are Leron-Leron Sinta,
Pamulinawen, Dandansoy, Sarong Banggi and Atin Cu Pung Singsing.
E. RECREATIONAL PLAYS
There are many recreational plays performed by Filipinos during the Spanish times.
Almost all of them were in poetic form. Here are examples:
1. Tibag –the word tibagmeans to excavate. This ritual was brought here by the
Spaniard to remind the people about the search of St. Helena for the Cross on
which Jesus died.
2. Lagaylay –this is a special occasion for the Pilareños of Sorsogon during Maytime
to get together. As early as April, the participating ladies are chosen and
sometimes, mothers volunteer their girls in order to fulfill a vow made during an
illness or for a favor received.In some parts of Bicol, a different presentation is
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made but the objective is the same –praise, respect and offering of love to the
Blessed Cross by St. Helen on the mound she had dug in.
3. The Cenaculo –this is a dramatic performance to commemorate the passion and
death of Jesus Christ. There are two kinds: the Cantada and Hablada. In the
Hablada the lines are spoken in a more deliberate manner showing the rhythmic
measure of each verse and the rhyming in each stanza and is more dignified in
theme; the Cantada is chanted like the Pasion.The Cenaculo is written in
octosyllabic verse, with 8 verses to the stanza. The full length versions take
about 3 nights of staging. Performers come in costumes with wigs and
performers are carefully chosen for their virtuous life. One performs the role of
Jesus Christ and another the role of the Virgin Mary. Many famous Cenaculo
players come from the Tagalog regions although there are also those from
Ilocos, Pampanga, Bicol and both Sibulanon and Hiligaynon.
4. Panunuluyan –this is presented before 12:00 on Christmas Eve. This is a
presentation of the search of the Virgin Mary and St. Joseph for an inn wherein
to deliver the baby Jesus.
5. The Salubong (or Panubong) -The Salubong is an Easter play that dramatizes the
meeting of the Risen Christ and his Mother. It is still presented in many
Philippine towns.
6. Carillo (Shadow Play) –this is a form of dramatic entertainment performed on a
moonless night during a town fiesta or on dark nights after a harvest. This
shadow play is made by projecting cardboard figures before a lamp against a
white sheet. The figures are moved like marionettes whose dialogues are
produced by some experts. The dialogues are drawn from a Corrido or Awit or
some religious play interspersed with songs. These are called by various names
in different places:Carillo in Manila, Rizal and Batangas and Laguan; TITRES in
Ilocos Norte, Pangasinan, Bataa, Capiz and Negros; TITIRI in Zambales; GAGALO
or KIKIMUT in Pampanga and Tarlac; and ALIALA in La Union.
7. The Zarzuela –considered the father of the drama; it is a musical comedy or
melodrama three acts which dealt with man’s passions and emotions like love,
hate, revenge, cruelty, avarice or some social or political problem.
8. The Sainete –this was a short musical comedy popular during the 18thcentury.
They were exaggerated comedies shown between acts of long plays and were
mostly performed by characters from the lower classes. Themes were taken
from everyday life scenarios.
F. THE MORO-MORO
Like the Cenaculo, the Moro-moro is presented also on a special stage. This is
performed during town fiestas to entertain the people and to remind them of their
Christian religion. The plot is usually the same that of a Christian princess or a
nobleman’s daughter who is captured by the Mohammedans. The father organizes a
rescue party where fighting between the Moros and the Christians ensue.
The Mohammedans are defeated by some miracle or Divine Intercession and the
Mohammedans are converted to Christianity. In some instances, the whole kingdom is
baptized and converted. One example of this is Prinsipe Rodante.
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G. KARAGATAN.
This is a poetic vehicle of a socio-religious nature celebrated during the death of a

person. In this contest, more or less formal, a ritual is performed based on a legend
about a princess who dropped her ring into the middle of the sea and who offered here
hand in marriage to anyone who can retrieve it.
A leader starts off with an extemporaneous poem announcing the purpose. He then
spins a “lumbo”o “tabo”marked with a white line. Whoever comes in the direction of the
white line when the spinning stops gets his turn to “go into the sea to look for the
ring.”This means a girl will ask him a riddle and if he is able to answer, he will offer the
ring to the girl. H. DUPLO. The Duplo replace the Karagatan. This is a poetic joust in
speaking and reasoning. The roles are taken from the Bible and from proverbs and
saying. It is usually played during wakes for the dead. I. THE BALAGTASAN. This is a
poetic joust or a contest of skills in debate on a particular topic or issue. This is replaced
the DUPLO and is held to honor Francisco “Balagtas”Baltazar.
J. THE DUNG-AW. This is a chant in free verse by a bereaved person or his

representative beside the corpse of the dead. No definite meter or rhyming scheme is
used. The person chanting it freely recites in poetic rhythm according to his feelings,
emotions and thoughts. It is personalized and usually deals with the life, sufferings and
sacrifices of the dead and includes apologies for his misdeeds. K. THE AWIT and the
CORRIDO. Some use these two interchangeably because distinction is not clear.
The Period of Enlightenment (1872-1898)

After 300 years of passivity under Spanish rule, the Filipino spirit reawakened when the
3 priests Gomez, Burgos and Zamora were guillotined without sufficient evidence of
guilt. This occurred on the 17thof February. This was buttressed with the spirit of
liberalism when the Philippines opened its doors to world trade and with the coming of a
liberal leader in the person of Governor Carlos Maria de la Torre.
The Spaniards were unable to suppress the tide of rebellion among the Filipinos.
The once religious spirit transformed itself into one of nationalism and the Filipinos
demanded changes in the government and in the church.
A. The Propaganda Movement (1872-1896)
This movement was spearheaded mostly by the intellectual middle-class like Jose Rizal,
Marcelo del Pilar; Graciano Lopez Jaena, Antonio Luna, Mariano Ponce, Jose Ma.
Panganiban, and Pedro Paterno. The objectives of this movement were to seek reforms
and changes like the following:
1. To get equal treatment for the Filipinos and the Spaniards under the law.
2. To make the Philippines a colony of Spain.
3. To restore Filipino representation in the Spanish Cortes.
4. To Filipinize the parishes.
5. To give the Filipinos freedom of speech, of the press, assembly and for redress
of grievances.
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B. Highlights of the Propaganda Movement
There were three principal leaders of the Propaganda movement. They were Jose P.
Rizal, Marcelo H. del Pilar and Graciano Lopez Jaena. Here are highlights about them
and what they have done for our country.
DR. JOSE P. RIZAL
Jose Protacio Rizal Mercado Alonzo y Realonda was born on June 19, 1861 at Calamba,
Laguna. His first teacher was his mother Teodora Alonozo. He studied at the Ateneo de
Manila, started medicine at UST and finished at the Universidad Central of Madrid. He
also studied at the University of Berlin, Leipzig and Heidelberg.
He died by musketry in the hands of the Spaniards on December 30, 1896 on charges of
sedition and rebellion against the Spaniards. His pen-name was Laong Laan and
Dimasalang. His books and writings:
1. NOLI ME TANGERE. This was the novel that gave spirit to the propaganda
movement and paved the way to the revolution against Spain. In this book, he
courageously exposed the evils in the Spanish-run government in the
Philippines.The Spaniards prohibited the reading of this novel but a lot of
translations were able to enter stealthily in the country even if it means death to
those caught in possession of them.The NOLI gave Philippine literature the
immortal characters Maria Clara, Juan Crisostomo Ibarra, Elias, Sisa, Pilosofong
Tasio, Doña Victorina, Kapitana Maria, Basilio and Crispin, Rizal had a powerful
pen in the delineation of these characters.
2. EL FILIBUSTERISMO. This is a sequel to the NOLI. While the NOLI exposed the
evils in society, the FILI exposed those in the government and in the church.
However, the NOLI has been dubbed the novel of society while that of FILI is
that of politics.
3. MI ULTIMO ADIOS (My Last Farewell). This was a poem by Rizal while he was
incarcerated at Fort Santiago and is one that can compare favorably with the
best in the world. It was only after his death when his name was affixed to the
poem.
4. SOBRE LA INDOLENCIA DE LOS FILIPINOS (On the Indolence of the Filipinos).
An essay on the so-called Filipino indolence and an evaluation of the reasons for
such allegations.
5. FILIPINAS DENTRO DE CIEN AÑOS(The Philippines within a Century). An essay
predicting the increasing influence of the US in the Philippines and the decreasing
interest of Europe here. Rizal predicted that if there is any other colonizer of the
Philippines in the future, it would be the US.
6. A LA JUVENTUD FILIPINA(To the Filipino Youth). A poem Rizal dedicated to the
Filipino youth studying at UST.
7. EL CONSEJO DE LES DIOSES (The Council of the Gods). An allegorical play
manifesting admiration for Cervantes.
8. JUNTO AL PASIG (Beside the Pasig River). Written by Rizal when he was 14 years
of age.
14
9. ME PIDEN VERSOS (You asked Me for Verses); 1882 and A LAS FLORES DE
HEIDELBERG (To the Flowers of Heidelberg). Two poems manifesting Rizal’s
unusual depth of emotion.
10. NOTAS A LA OBRA SUCESOS DE LAS FILIPINAS FOR EL DR. ANTONIO DE
MORGA (Notes on Philippine Events by Dr. Antonio de Morga): 1889
11. P. JACINTO: MEMORIAS DE UN ESTUDIANTE DE MANILA (P. Jacinto: Memoirs of
a Student of Manila) 1882
12. DIARIO DE VIAJE DE NORTE AMERICA (Diary of a Voyage to North America)
MARCELO H. DEL PILAR
Marcelo H. del Pilar is popularly known for his pen name of Plaridel, Pupdoh, Piping Dilat
and Dolores Manapat. He was born at Cupang, San Nicolas, Bulacan on August 30,
1850.
His parents were Julian H. del Pilar, noted Filipino writer and Biasa Gatmaita. His
brother was the priest Fr. Toribio del Pilar who was banished to Marianas in 1872.
Because there were many children in the family, Marcelo gave up his share of his
inheritance for his other brothers and sisters.
Marcelo started schooling at the school of Mr. Flores and then transferred to that of San
Jose before UST. His last year in law school was interrupted for 8 years after he had
quarrel with the parish priest during a baptism at San Miguel, Manila in 1880.
He established the Diariong Tagalog in 1883 where he exposed the evils of the Spanish
government in the Philippines and in order to avoid the false accusations hurried at him
by the priests. To avoid banishment, he was forced to travel to Spain in 1888.
He was assisted by Fr. Serrano Laktaw in publishing a different Cathecism and Passion
Book wherein they made fun of the priests. They also made the DASALAN AT
TOCSOHAN and KAIINGAT KAYO taken from the word IGAT, a kind of snake fish caught
in politics.
Upon his arrival in Spain, he replaced Graciano Lopez Jaena as editor of LA

SOLIDARIDAD, a paper which became the vehicle thru which reforms in the government
could be worked out. This did not last long for he got sick and even to reach Hong Kong
from where he could arouse his countrymen. He died of tuberculosis in Spain but before
he died, he asked his companions to tell his wife and children that he was sorry he
wasn’t able to bid them goodbye; to tell others about the fate of our countrymen and to
continue helping the country.
Plaridel has truly earned a niche in the history of our nation. Even today, countless
streets have been named after him. The former Kingwa has been named Plaridel, the
Malolos High School is now Marcelo H. del Pilar High School and above all, his patriotism
and bravery will remain alive in our memories. Writings of Marcelo H. del Pilar are:
1. PAGIBIG SA TINUBUANG LUPA (Love of Country). Translated from the Spanish

AMOR PATRIA of Rizal, published on August 20, 1882, in Diariong Tagalog.
2. KAIINGAT KAYO (Be Careful). A humorous and sarcastic dig in answer to Fr.
Jose Rodriquez in the novel NOLI of Rizal, published in Barcelona in 1888. He
used Dolores Manapat as pen-name here.
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3. DASALAN AT TOCSOHAN (Prayers and Jokes). Similar to a cathecism but

sarcastically done agains the parish priests, published in Barcelona in 1888.
Because of this, del Pilar was called “filibuster.”Done in admirable tone of
supplication and excellent use of Tagalog.
4. ANG CADAQUILAAN NG DIOS (God’s Goodness). Published in Barcelona, it was
also like a cathecism sarcastically aimed against the parish priests but also
contains a philosophy of the power and intelligence of God and an appreciation
for and love for nature.
5. SAGOT SA ESPANYA SA HIBIK NG PILIPINAS (Answer to Spain on the Plea of the
Filipinos). A poem pleading for change from Spain but that Spain is already old
and weak to grant any aid to the Philippines. This poem is in answer to that of
Hermenigildo Flores’Hibik sa Pilipinas (A Plea from the Philippines).
6. DUPLUHAN…DALIT…MGA BUGTONG (A poetical contest in narrative sequence,
psalms, riddles). A compilation of poems on the oppression by the priests in the
Philippines.
7. LA SOBERANIA EN PILIPINAS (Sovereignty in the Philippines). This shows the
injustices of the friars to the Pilipinos.
8. POR TELEFONO (By Telephone)
9. PASIONG DAPAT IPAG-ALAB NG PUSO NG TAONG BABASA (Passion that should
arouse the hearts of the readers) GRACIANO LOPEZ JAENA (1856-1896) A most
notable hero and genius of the Philippines, Graciano Lopez Jaena was born on
December 18, 1856 and died on January 20, 1896.
The pride of Jaro, Iloilo, he won the admiration of the Spaniards and Europeans. He is a
known writer and orator in the Philippines. He wrote 100 speeches which were
published by Remigio Garcia, former bookstore owner in Manila Filatica and which are
still read up to no by modern Filipinos. Lopez Jaena left the Philippines in 1887 with the
help of Don Claudio Lopez, a rich uncle, in order to escape punishment form his enemies
and arrived at Valencia, the center of the Republican movement of the Spaniards. He
gained the acquaintance of the high officials like Piy Margall, Morayta, Moret, Castelar,
and Salmeron.
From Valencia, he moved to Barcelona where he established the first magazine LA

SOLIDARIDAD. This later became the official voice of the Association Hispano de
Filipinas (a Filipino-Spanish Association) composed of Filipinos and Spaniards who
worked for reforms in the Philippines. Because of this, Jaena successfully showed the
Spaniards and the people of the world how a newspaperman can introduce changes in
law and reforms towards a better life and progress. Jaena, although he didn’t become a
professor, was also a teacher in a sense to his friends and relatives in the Philippines.
Like Antonio Maria Regidor, Tomas G. del Rosario and Felipe Calderon, he stood for the
separation of church and state for free education, better government and schools,
freedom of worship and for an independent and free university. He sided with Rizal in
the controversy between Rizal and del Pilar over who should head the Association
Hispano de Filipinas in Madrid. He returned to the Philippines to ask for donations to
continue a new government called El Latigo Nacional or Pambansang Latigo. He sold
the rights of La Solidaridad ot del Pilar who had become a lawyer and had brought in
money from his sojourn in Spain.
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GRACIANO LOPEZ JAENA
Graciano Lopez Jaena died in a charity hospital in Barcelona on January 20, 1896, eleven
months before his best friend Rizal was shot at the Luneta on December 30, 1896. The
works of Graciano Lopez Jaena are:
1. ANG FRAY BOTOD (Friar Botod). One of his works written in Jaro, Iloilo in 1876,
six years after the Cavite Revolt attacking the friars in the Philippines. He
exposed how some of the friars were greedy, ambitious and immoral.
2. LA HIJA DEL FRAILE (The Child of the Friar) and EVERYTING IS HAMBUG
(Everything is mere show). Here Jaena explains the tragedy of marrying a
Spaniard.
3. SA MGA PILIPINO...1891…A speech which aimed to improve the condition of the
Filipinos to become free and progressive.
4. TALUMPATING PAGUNITA KAY KOLUMBUS (An Oration to Commemorate
Columbus). A speech he delivered in Madrid on the 39thanniversary of the
discovery of America
5. EN HONOR DEL PRESIDENTE MORAYTA DE LA ASSOCIACION HISPANO
FILIPINO 1884. Here he praised Gen. Morayta for his equal treatment of the
Filipinos.
6. EN HONOR DE LOS ARTISTAS LUNA Y RESURRECCION HIDALGO. A sincere
expression of praise for the paintings of Hidalgo on the condition of the Filipinos
under the Spaniards.
7. AMOR A ESPAÑA O A LAS JOVENES DE MALOLOS (Love for Spain or To the
Youth of Malolos). The theme is about how girls were taught Spanish in schools
and whose teachers were the governors-general of the place.
8. EL BANDOLERISMO EN PILIPINAS (Banditry in the Philippines). Jaena refuted
the existence of banditry in the Philippines and of how there should be laws on
robbery and other reforms.
9. HONOR EN PILIPINAS (Honor in the Philippines). The triumphant exposition of
Luna, Resurrecion and Pardo de Tavera of the thesis that intellect or knowledge
gives honor to the Philippines.
10. PAG-ALIS SA BUWIS SA PILIPINAS (Abolition of Taxes in the Philippines)
11. INSTITUCION NG PILIPINAS (Sufferings of the Philippines). Jaena refers here to
the wrong management of education in the Philippines 1887.
B. OTHER PROPAGANDISTS
ANTONIO LUNA
Antonio Luna was a pharmacist who was banished by the Spaniards to Spain. He joined
the Propaganda Movement and contributed his writings to LA SOLIDARIDAD. Most of
his works dealt with Filipino customs and others were accusations about how the
Spaniards ran the government. His pen name was Tagailog. He died at the age of 33 in
June 1899. He was put to death by the soldiers of Aguinaldo because of his instant rise
to fame which became a threat to Aguinaldo. Some of his works are:
1. NOCHE BUENA (Christmas Eve). It pictured true Filipino life.
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2. SE DEVIERTEN (How They Diverted Themselves). A dig at a dance of the

Spaniards where the people were very crowded.
3. LA TERTULIA FILIPINA (A Filipino Conference or Feast). Depicts a Filipino
custom which he believed was much better than the Spanish.
4. POR MADRID (For Madrid). A denouncement of Spaniards who claim that the
Philippines is a colony of Spain but who think of Filipinos as foreigners when it
comes to collecting taxes for stamps.
5. LA CASA DE HUEPEDES (The Landlady’s House). Depicts a landlady who looks
for boarders not for money but in order to get a husband for her child.
MARIANO PONCE
Mariano Ponce became an editor-in-chief, biographer and researcher of the Propaganda

Movement. He used Tikbalang, Kalipulako, and Naning as pennames. The common
themes of his works were the values of education. He also wrote about how the
Filipinos were oppressed by the foreigners and of the problems of his countrymen.
Among his writings were:
1. MGA ALAMAT NG BULACAN (Legend of Bulacan). Contains legends, and folklores

of his native town.
2. PAGPUGOT KAY LONGINOS (The Beheading of Longinos). A play shown at the
plaza of Malolos, Bulacan.
3. SOBRE FILIPINOS (About the Filipinos)
4. ANG MGA PILIPINO SA INDO-TSINA (The Filipinos in Indo-China) PEDRO
PATERNO Pedro Paterno was a scholar, dramatic, researcher and novelist of the
Propaganda Movement.
He also joined the Confraternity of Masons and the Asociacion Hispano-Pilipino in order
to further the aims of the Movement. He was the first Filipino writer who escaped
censorship of the press during the last day of the Spanish colonization. The following
were a few of his writings:
1. NINAY. The first social novel in Spanish by a Filipino.

2. A MI MADRE (To My Mother). Shows the importance of a mother especially in
the home.
3. SAMPAGUITA Y POESIAS VARIAS (Sampaguitas and Varied Poems). A collection
of his poems.
JOSE MA. PANGANIBAN
Jose Ma. Panganiban hid his identity behind his penname JORMAPA. He was also known
for having photographic mind. He was a member of a number of movements for the
country. Some of his writings were:
1. ANG LUPANG TINUBUAN (My Native Land)

2. ANG AKING BUHAY (My Life)
3. SU PLANO DE ESTUDIO (Your Study Plan)
4. EL PENSAMIENTO (The Thinking)
C. Period of Active Revolution (1896-1898)
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The Filipinos did not get the reforms demanded by the propagandists. The government
turned deaf ears to these petitions; oppression continued and the church and the
government became even more oppressive to the Filipinos. The good intentions of
Spain were reversed by the friars who were lording it over in the Philippines. Because of
this, not a few of the Filipinos affiliated with the La Liga Filipina (a civic organization
suspected of being revolutionary and which triggered Rizal’s banishment to Dapitan).
Like Andres Bonifacio, Emilio Jacinto, Apolinario Mabini, Jose Palma, and Pio Valenzuela
decided that there was no other way except to revolt.
The gist of literature contained mostly accusations against the government and was
meant to arouse the people to unite and to prepare for independence.
D. Highlights of the Active Revolution
The noted leaders of this period were Andres Bonifacio, Emilio Jacinto and Apolinario
Mabini. These are their contributions to our country.
ANDRES BONIFACIO
Andres Bonifacio is best known as the Father of Filipino Democracy, but more than
others, as the Father of the Katipunan because he led in establishing the Kataas-taasan,
Kagalanggalanga Katipunan ng mga Anak ng Bayan (KKK). Andres Bonifacio came from
a poor family and it is said that what he learned he got from the school of experience.
He was a voracious reader and among those he loved to read which aroused his
revolutionary spirit were the NOLI and the FILI of Rizal. He joined the La Liga Filipina
founded by Rizal in 1892. He established the Katipunan which triggered the spirit of
freedom especially when Rizal was banished to Dapitan, Mindanao. Bonifacio is better
known as the great Revolutionary rather than a writer but he also wrote things which
paved the way for the revolution and which also became part of our literature. Among
his works were:
1. ANG DAPAT MABATID NG MGA TAGALOG (What the Tagalogs Should Know)
2. KATUNGKULANG GAGAWIN NG MGA ANA NG BAYAN (Obligations of Our
Countrymen). This is an outline of obligations just like the 10 commandments of
God.
3. PAG-IBIG SA TINUBUAN LUPA (Love of One’s Native Land). A poem with a title
similar to that of Marcelo H. del Pilar.
4. HULING PAALAM (Last Farewell). A translation of Mi Ultimo Adios of Rizal in
Tagalog.
APOLINARIO MABINI
Apolinario Mabini is known in literature and history as the Sublime Paralytic and the
Brains of the Revolution.
EMILIO JACINTO
Emilio Jacinto was the intelligent assistant of Andres Bonifacio in the establishment of
the Katipuna. He is called the Brains of the Katipunan. He edited Kalayaan (Freedom) a
Katipunan newspaper. Bonifacio withdrew his writing of the Kartilya in deference to
Jacinto’s work as secretary of the Katipunan. His Kartilya was the one followed by the
members of the organization. Here are few of his writings:
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1. KARTILYA NG KATIPUNAN (A primer book on the Katipunan)

2. LIWANAG AT DILIM (Light and Darkness). A collection of essays on different
subjects like freedom, work, faith, government, love of country.
3. A MI MADRE (To My Mother). A touching ode to his mother.
4. A LA PATRIA (To My Country). His masterpiece.
He was born in Talaga, Tanauan, Batangas on July 22, 1864. Because he was born of a
poor family he had to work in order to study. He became known to his professors and
classmates at Letran and the UST because of his sharp memory and the simple clothes
he used to wear throughout his schooling. He became the right-hand of Emilio Aguinaldo
when the latter founded his Republic in Malolos. His contributions to literature were
writing on government society, philosophy and politics. Here are some of his works:
1. EL VERDADERO DECALOGO (The True Decalogue or Ten Commandments). This

was his masterpiece and his aim here was to propagate the spirit of nationalism.
2. EL DESAROLLO Y CAIDA DE LA REPUBLICA (The Rise and Fall of the Philippine
Republic)
3. SA BAYANG PILIPINO (To the Filipino Nation)
4. PAHAYAG (News)
OTHER REVOLUTIONISTS
JOSE PALMA
Jose Palma became popular because of his Himno Nacional Filipino (The Philippine
National Anthem) which was set to music by Julian Felipe.He was born in Tondo, Manila
on June 6, 1876. His brother Rafael Palma became the president of the UP. He joined
the revolution against the Americans together with Gregorio del Pilar, the youngest
Filipino general who died during the revolution. Aside from the National Anthem, here
are his other works:
1. MELANCOLIAS (Melancholies). A collection of his poems.

2. DE MI JARDIN (In My Garden). A poem expressing one’s longings for his
sweetheart.
NEWSPAPERS DURING THE REVOLUTION
In the effort of the Revolutionists to spread to the world their longings for their country,
many newspapers were put up during the Revolutionary period. They were:
1. HERALDO DE LA REVOLUCION. Printed the decrees of the Revolutiary

Government, news and works in Tagalog that aroused nationalism.
2. LA INDEPENDENCIA (Independence). Edited by Antonio Luna and whose aim
was for Philippine Independence.
3. LA REPUBLICA PILIPINA (The Philippine Republic). Established by Pedro Paterno
in 1898.
4. LA LIBERTAD (Liberty). Edited by Clemente Zulueta.
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The American Regime (1898-1941)

The Filipino Revolutionists won against the Spaniards who colonized us for more than
300 years. Our flag was hoisted on June 12, 1898 as a symbol of our independence.
Gen. Emilio Aguinaldo was elected the first President of the Philippine Republic but this
was short-lived. The Fil-American was resulted in the defeat of Gen. Miguel Malvar in
1903. The peace movements started as early as 1900. Many Filipinos started writing
again and the nationalism of the people remained undaunted.
Filipino writers went into all forms of literature like news, reporting, poetry, stories,
plays, essays, and novels. Their writings clearly depicted their love of country and their
longings for independence. The active arousal in the field of literature started to be felt
in the following newspapers.
1. EL NUEVO DIA (The New Day). Established by Sergio Osmeña in 1900. The
American censors twice banned this and threatened Osmeña with banishment
because of his nationalistic writings.
2. EL GRITO DEL PUEBLO (The Call of the Nation). Established by Pascual Poblete
in 1900.
3. EL RENACIMIENTO (The Rebirth). Founded by Rafael Palma in 1901.
There were also plays written then but after the first and second presentations, the
Americans put a stop to this because of the consistent theme of nationalism. Included
here were the following:
1. KAHAPON, NGAYON AT BUKAS (Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow). Written by

Aurelio Tolentino depicting the suppression done by the Americans and their plan
to colonize the Philippines.
2. TANIKALANG GINTO of Juan Abad.
3. MALAYA by Tomas Remigio.
4. WALANG SUGAT by Severino Reyes.
A. Characteristics of Literature during this Period
Three groups of writers contributed to Philippine Literature during this period. During
the first year of the American period, the languages used in writing were Spanish and
Tagalog and the dialects of the different regions, but Spanish and Tagalog
predominated. In 1910, a new group started to write in English. Hence, Spanish,
Tagalog, the Vernaculars and finally, English, were the mediums used in literature during
these times. While the three groups were one in their ideas and spirit, they differed in
their methods of reporting. The writers in Spanish were wont to write on nationalism
like honoring Rizal and other heroes.
The writers in Tagalog continued in their lamentations on the conditions of the country
and their attempts to arouse love for one’s native tongue. The writers in English
imitated the themes and methods of the Americans. A. Literature in Spanish The
inspiration of our Filipino writers in Spanish was Rizal not only because of his being a
national leader but also because of his novels NOLI and FILI. These two novels
contained the best qualities of a novel ever written, in English or in Filipino. Those who
were inspired to write in praise of him were Cecilio Apostol, Fernando Ma. Guerrero,
Jesus Balmori, Manuel Bernabe and Claro M. Recto.
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CECILIO APOSTOL
Cecilio Apostol wrote poems dedicated to Rizal, Jacinto, Mabini and all other heroes but
his poem dedicated to Rizal is considered the best poem in praise of the hero of
Bagumbayan.
FERNANDO MA. GUERRERO
It is believed that Fernando Ma. Guerrero shared with Apostol the reign in the
balagtasan in Spanish during their time. He also dedicated a poem to Rizal but he
collected the best of his poems in a book called CRISALIDAS, meaning, a kind of black,
wooly caterpillar. Here are a few stanzas of his call to Rizal which he wrote on June 19,
1901 to commemorate Rizal’s birthday. JESUS BALMORI Jesus Balmori is well-known for
his pen name of Batikuling. He and Manuel Bernabe participated in a debate on the
topic – (Remembrance and Forgetfulness). He was elected Poet Laureate in Spanish
besting Manuel Bernabe.
MANUEL BERNABE
Manuel Bernabe is a lyric poet and the fierceness of his nationalistic spirit was
unchanged in any topic he wrote about. In his debate with Balmori, he was more
attractive to the public because of the modious words he used. He defended OLVIDO
(Forgetfulness). CLARO M. RECTO In nobility of speech and theme, Claro M. Recto can
compare with the other writers of Spanish. He collected his poems in a book entitled
BAJO LOS COCOTEROS (Under The Coconut Trees).
Other Writers in Spanish are:
1. Adelina Guerrea was the first woman poet in the Philippines who was good in
Spanish. She obtained the Zobel prize in her song El Nido. (The Nest).
2. Isidro Marpori became famous for his four books entitled Aromas de
Ensueño(Scents of Dreams).
3. Macario Adriatico wrote of a legend of Mindoro entitle La Punta de Salto (The
Place of Origin).
4. Epifanio de los Santos (known as Don PAnyong). He was a good leader and
biographer during the whole period of Spanish literature.
5. Pedro Aunario wrote the Decalogo del Proteccionismo.
B. Filipino Literature
FLORANTE AT LAURA of Francisco Balagtas and URBANA AT FELISA of Modesto de

Castro became the inspiration of the Tagalog writers. Julian Cruz Balmaceda classified
three kinds of Tagalog poets: They were:
1. Poet of the Heart (Makata ng Puso). These included Lope K. Santos, Iñigo Ed.
Regalado, Carlos Gatmaitan, Pedro Deogracias del Rosario, Ildefonso Santos,
Amado V. Hernandez, Nemecio Carabana, and Mar Antonio.
2. Poets of Life (Makata ng Buhay). Led by Lope K Santos, Jose Corazon de Jesus,
Florentino Collantes, Patricio Mariano, Carlos Garmaitan, and Amado V.
Hernandez.
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3. Poets of the Stage (Makata ng Tanghalan). Led by Aurelio Tolentino, Patricio

Mariano, Severino Reyes, and Tomas Remigio.
In the realm of short stories that started to appear in the column Pangsandaliang
Libangan (Short-time Leisure) and Dagli (Fast) we find here the names of Lope K.
Santos, Patricio Mariano, and Rosauro Almario. In the Liwayway Publications, we find
Deogracias Rosario, Teodoro Gener, and Cirio H. Panganiban. Noted novelists or
biographers were Valeriano Hernandez Peña, Lope K. Santos, Iñigo Ed. Regalado,
Faustino Aguilar, etc. Here are the autobiographies of some of the writers mentioned:
LOPE K. SANTOS
Lope K. Santos, a novelist, poet and author, and grammarian covered three periods of
Tagalog literature –American, Japanese and the contemporary period. If Manuel L.
Quezon is called the Father of the National Language, Lope K. Santos is called the Father
of the National Language Grammar. He was also called the “Apo”of the Tagalog writers.
BANAAG AT SIKAT was his masterpiece. JOSE CORAZON DE JESUS Jose Corazon de
Jesus is very popularly known as Huseng Batute. He was also called the Poet of Love in
his time. ANG ISANG PUNONG KAHOY (A TREE), an elegy, is believed to be his
masterpiece.
AMADO V. HERNANDEZ
Amado V. Hernandez was dubbed Makata ng mga Manggagawa (Poet of the Laborers) in
our literature because he pictures in his poem the intense love for the poor worker or
laborer. To him, a poem is a scent, bittersweet memories, and a murmur of flowing
water. The pen is powerful and according to him, even a king can be bent by the pen.
He contributed a lot of writings to literature like ISANG DIPANG LANGIT (A Stretch of
Heaven), BAYANG MALAYA (A Free Nation), ANG PANDAY (The Blakcsmith), and
MUNTING LUPA (A Small Plot), but his masterpiece is ANG PANDAY.
VALERIANO HERNANDEZ PEÑA
Together with Lope K. Santos he reached the summit of his novel-writing. He was
known as Tandang Anong and his pen name was Kuntil Butil (Small Grain). He
considers NENA AT NENENG his masterpiece.
IÑIGO ED. REGALADO
Iñigo Ed. Regalado was a son of a popular writer during the Spanish time known as
Odalger. He proved that he not only followed the footsteps of his father but also
reached the peak of his success by the “sumpong” (whim) of his pen. He also became a
popular story-teller, novelist and newspaperman. The Tagalog Drama During the advent
of the American period, Severino Reyes and Hermogenes Ilagan started the movement
against the moromoro ( a play on the Spanish struggles against the Muslims) and
struggled to show the people the values one can get from the zarzuela and the simple
plays.
The people one should not forget in the field of writing are the following:
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1. Severino Reyes. Father of the Tagalog drama and author of the immortal
WALANG SUGAT.
2. Aurelio Tolentino. The dramatist in whom the Kapampangans take pride.
Included in his writings were LUHANG TAGALOG, his masterpiece, and
KAHAPON, NGAYONG AT BUKAS that resulted in his incarceration.
3. Hermogenes Ilagan. Founded the group Campaña Ilagan that presented many
dramas in Central Luzon.
4. Patricio Mariano. Wrote the novel NINAY and ANAK NG DAGAT (Son of the Sea),
his masterpiece.
5. Julian Cruz Balmaceda. Wrote BUNGANGA NG PATING (Shark’s Mouth). This
gave him much honor and fame.
The Tagalog Short Story Two collections of Tagalog stories were published during the
American Period. First was the MGA KUWENTONG GINTO (Golden Stories) published in
1936 and KUWENTONG GINTO ng 50 BATIKANG KUWENTISTA (50 Golden Stories by 50
Noted Storytellers) in 1939. The first was written by Alejandro Abadilla and Clodualdo
del Mundo that contained the 25 best stories according to them.
The second was written by Pedrito Reyes. PAROLANG GINTO (Golden Lantern) and
TALAANG BUGHAW (Blue List) of Abadilla became popular during this period.
Tagalog Poetry
Almost all Tagalog writers during the American Period were able to compose beautiful
poems which made it difficult to select the best. Even if poetry writing is as old as
history, poetry still surfaces with its sweetness, beauty, and melody.
Other Forms of Literature
The following are those recognized in the field of Ilocano Literature:
1. Pedro Bukaneg. Father of Ilocano Literature. From his name was derived the
word Bukanegan, which means Balagtasan (a poetic contest) in Ilocano.
2. Claro Caluya. Prince of Ilocano Poets. Known as poet and novelist.
3. Leon Pichay. Known as the best Bukanegero (from Bukaneg). Also a poet,
novelist, short story writer, dramatist and essayist.
Literature of the Kapampangans (Pampango Literature)
Two stalwarts in the literature of the Kapampangans stand out. They are:
1. Juan Crisostomo Soto. (Father of Kapampangan Literature). The word

CRISOTAN (meaning Balagtasan) in Tagalog is taken from his name.
2. Aurelio Tolentino. He truly proved his being a Kaampangan in his translation of
KAHAPON, NGAYON AT BUKAS into Kapampangan which he called NAPON,
NGENI AT BUKAS.
Visayan Literature
The following are the top men in Visayan literature:
24
1. Eriberto Gumban. (Father of Visayan Literature). He wrote a zarzuela, moro-

moro and a play in Visayan.
2. Magdalena Jalandoni. She devoted her talent to the novel. She wrote ANG MGA
TUNUK SAN ISA CA BULACLAC.
C. Philippine Literature in English
In a way, we can say that we can trace the beginnings of Philippine literature in English
with the coming of the Americans. For this purpose, we can divide this period into three
time frames, namely: 1) The Period of Re-orientation: 1898-1910, 2) The Period of
Imitation: 1910-1925, 3) The Period of Self-Discovery: 1925-1941
(1) The Period of Re-orientation (1898-1910)
English as a literary vehicle came with the American occupation in August 13, 1898 and
as they say, a choice bestowed on us by history. By 1900, English came to be used as a
medium of instruction in the public schools. From the American forces were recruited
the first teachers of English.
By 1908, the primary and intermediate grades were using English. It was also about this
time when UP, the forerunner in the use of English in higher education, was founded.
Writers of this period were still adjusting to the newfound freedom after the paralyzing
effect of repression of thought and speech under the Spanish regime. They were
adjusting the idea of democracy, to the new phraseology of the English language and to
the standards of the English literary style Writers had to learn direct expression as
conditioned by direct thinking. They had to learn that sentence constructions; sounds
and speech in English were not the same as in the vernacular. They had to discard
sentimentality and floridity of language for the more direct and precise English language.
Not much was produced during this period and what literature was produced was not
much of literary worth. The first attempts in English were in two periodicals of this time:
a) El Renacimiento: founded in Manila by Rafael Palma in 1901.

b) Philippines Free Press: established in Manila in 1905 by R. McCullough Dick
and D. Theo Rogers.
POETRY
In 1907, Justo Juliano’s SURSUM CORDA which appeared in the Renacimiento was the
first work to be published in English. In 1909, Jan F. Salazar’s MY MOTHER and his AIR
CASTLES were also published in this paper. It was also in 1909 when Proceso Sebastian
followed with his poem TO MY LADY IN LAOAG, also in this same paper.
(2) The Period of Imitation (1910-1924)
By 1919, the UP College Folio published the literary compositions of the first Filipino
writers in English. They were the pioneers in short story writing. They were then
groping their way into imitating American and British models which resulted in a stilted,
artificial and unnatural style, lacking vitality and spontaneity. Their models included
Longfellow and Hawthorne, Emerson and Thoreau, Wordsworth and Tennyson,
Thackeray and Macaulay, Longfellow, Allan Poe, Irving and other American writers of the
Romantic School. Writers of this folio included Fernando Maramag (the best editorial
25
writer of this period) Juan F. Salazar, Jose M. Hernandez, Vicente del Fierro, and
Francisco M. Africa and Victoriano Yamzon. They pioneered in English poetry.
ESSAYS
The noted essayists of this time were: Carlos P. Romulo, Jorge C. Bocobo, Mauro
Mendez, and Vicente Hilario. Their essays were truly scholarly characterized by sobriety,
substance and structure. They excelled in the serious essay, especially the editorial
type. The next group of writers introduced the informal essay, criticism and the
journalistic column. They spiced their work with humor, wit and satire. These group
included Ignacio Manlapaz, Godefredo Rivera, Federico Mangahas, Francisco B. Icasiano,
Salvador P. Lopez, Jose Lansang and Amando G. Dayrit.
SHORT STORIES
In the field of short stories, DEAD STARS by Paz Marquez Benitez written in the early
1920’s stand out as a model of perfection in character delineation, local color, plot and
message. Other short stories published during this time were but poor imitations of their
foreign models. The UP College Folio was later replaced by the Philippine Collegian.
Newspapers and periodicals also saw print during this time like the Bulletin, the
Philippines Herald (1920), the Philippine Review, the Independent, Rising Philippines and
Citizens,and the Philippine Education Magazine 1924.
D. Period of Self-Discovery and Growth (1925-1941)
By this time, Filipino writers had acquired the mastery of English writing. They now
confidently and competently wrote on a lot of subjects although the old-time favorites of
love and youth persisted. They went into all forms of writing like the novel and the
drama.
1. POETRY
Noteworthy names in this field include Marcelo de Gracia Concepcion, Jose Garcia Villa,
Angela Manalang Gloria, Abelardo Subido, Trinidad Tarrosa Subido and Rafael Zulueta da
Costa. They turned our not only love poems but patriotic, religious, descriptive and
reflective poems as well. They wrote in free verse, in odes and sonnets and in other
types. Poetry was original, spontaneous, competently written and later, incorporated
social consciousness.
2. THE SHORT STORY (1925-1941)
Probably because of the incentives provided by publications like the Philippine Free
Press, The Graphic, The Philippine Magazine and college publications like the UP Literary
Apprentice, poetry and the short story flourished during these times.
Other writers during this time include Osmundo Sta. Romana, Arturo Rotor, Paz
Latorena’s Sunset, and Jose Garcia Villa’s Mirin-isa. From 1930 to 1940, the Golden Era
of Filipino writing in English saw the short story writers “who have arrived,”like Jose
Lansang’s The Broken Parasol, Sinai C. Hamada’s Talanata’s Wife, Fausto Dugenio’s
Wanderlust, Amando G. Dayrit’s His Gift and Yesterday,Amador T. Daugio’sThe Woman
Who Looked Out of the Window. Characteristics of the short stories during these times:
There were still remnants of Spanish influence in the use of expressions that were florid,
26
sentimental, exaggerated and bombastic. The influence of the Western culture also was
already evident.
3. ESSAYS AND OTHER PROSE STYLES (1925-1941)
Essays during this period improved with the years in quality and quantity, in content,
subject and style. Essayists like Carlos P. Romulo became even more eminent editorial
writers. The notable writers of essays during this period were:
a. Political, social reflective essays: Through their newspaper columns the following
became very popular: Federico Mangahas, Salvador P. Lopez, Pura S. Castrence,
Vicente Albano Pacis, Ariston Estrada and Jose A. Lansang.
b. Critical essays were espoused by Salvador P. Lopez, I.V. Mallari, Ignacio
Manlapaz, Jose Garcia Villa, Arturo B. Rotor, and Leopoldo Y. Yabes. An
example of this is Maximo V. Soliven’s THEY CALLED IT BROTHERHOOD.
c. Personal or Familiar essays were written by F.B. Icasiano (Mang Kiko), Alfredo E.
Litiatco, Solomon V. Arnaldo, Amando G. Dayrit and Consuelo Gar (Catuca).
Some of the notable works during this time were:
1940:Salvador P. Lopez’LITERATURE AND SOCIETY which is a collection of critical

reflections and serious essays and which won first prize in the Commonwealth Literary
Contest of 1940.
1940:Camilo Osias published THE FILIPINO WAY OF LIFE, a series of essays on the
Filipino way of life as drawn from history, folkways, philosophy and psychology of the
Philippines.
1941:F.B. Icasiano (Mang Kiko) was reprints of the best of Icasiano’s essays in the
Sunday Times Magazine under the column From My Nipa Hut. It is an essay of the
common “tao”and is written with humor and sympathy.
August 16, 1941:Carlos P. Romulo had an editorial printed in the Philippines Herald.
Entitled I AM A FILIPINO, it was reprinted in his book MY BORTHER AMERICANS in 1945
in New York by Doubleday & Co.
OTHER ESSAYISTS INCLUDE: Ignacio Manlapaz, Vicente Albano Pacis, I.V. Mallari, Jose
M. Fernandez, Leopoldo Y. Yabes, Isidro L. Ritizos, Pura Santillan.
The Philippine Writer’s League put out a collection of essays called Literature Under the
Commonwealth. Amando G. Dayrit with his column Good Morning Judge led others like
Leon Ma. Guerrero, Salvador P. Lopez, Vicente Albano Pacis, Jose A. Lansang and
Federico Mangahas.
4. BIOGRAPHY 1925-1941
In 1935, I.P. Caballero and Marcelo de Gracia Concepcion wrote about QUEZON. In
1938, THE GREAT MALAYAN won a prize in the national contest sponsored by the
Commonwealth of the Philippines. This was written by Carlos Quirino, the most famous
biographer of the period. He also wrote Quezon, the Man of Destiny.
In 1940, I.V. Mallari’s The Birthof Discontent revealed the sensitive touch of a writer who
in simple language was able to reveal his profound thoughts and feelings.
27
5. HISTORY
Not much about history has been written by Filipino writers. In 1937, with regard to
literary history, we can cite Teofilo del Castillo’s The Brief History of the Philippine
Islands.
6. PUBLICATIONS
The Philippine Free Press provided the first incentives to Filipino writers in English by
offering prizes to worthwhile contributions. Other publications followed suit.
7. THE DRAMA (1925-1941)
Drama during this period did not reach the heights attained by the novel or the short
story. The UP provided the incentives when they introduced playwriting as a course and
established the UP Little Theater.
The Japanese Period (1941-1945)

Between 1941-1945, Philippine Literature was interrupted in its development when the
Philippines was again conquered by another foreign country, Japan. Philippine literature
in English came to a halt. Except for the TRIBUNE and the PHILIPPINE REVIEW, almost
all newspapers in English were stopped by the Japanese. This had an advantageous
effect on Filipino Literature, which experienced renewed attention because writers in
English turned to writing in Filipino. Juan Laya, who use to write in English turned to
Filipino because of the strict prohibitions of the Japanese regarding any writing in
English.
The weekly LIWAYWAY was placed under strict surveillance until it was managed by
Japanese named Ishiwara. In other words, Filipino literature was given a break during
this period. Many wrote plays, poems, short stories, etc. Topics and themes were often
about life in the provinces.
A. FILIPINO POETRY DURING THIS PERIOD
The common theme of most poems during the Japanese occupation was nationalism,
country, love, and life in the barrios, faith, religion and the arts.
Three types of poems emerged during this period. They were:
1. Haiku –a poem of free verse that the Japanese like. It was made up of 17
syllables divided into three lines. The first line had 5 syllables, the second, 7
syllables, and the third, five. The Haiku is allegorical in meaning, is short and
covers a wide scope in meaning.
2. Tanaga –like the Haiku, is short but it had measure and rhyme. Each line had 17
syllables and it’s also allegorical in meaning.
3. Karaniwang Anyo (Usual Form) –like those mentioned earlier in the beginning
chapters of this book.
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B. FILIPINO DRAMA DURING THE JAPANESE PERIOD
The drama experienced a lull during the Japanese period because movie houses showing
American films were closed. The big movie houses were just made to show stage
shows. Many of the plays were reproductions of English plays to Tagalog. The
translators were Francisco Soc Rodrigo, Alberto Concio, and Narciso Pimentel. They also
founded the organization of Filipino players named Dramatic Philippines. A few of
playwriters were:
1. Jose Ma. Hernandez –wrote PANDAY PIRA

2. Francisco Soc Rodrigo –wrote sa PULA, SA PUTI
3. Clodualdo del Mundo –wrote BULAGA (an expression in the game Hide and
Seek).
4. Julian Cruz Balmaceda –wrote SINO BA KAYO?, DAHIL SA ANAK, and HIGANTE
NG PATAY.
C. THE FILIPINO SHORT STORY DURING THE JAPANESE PERIOD
The field of the short story widened during the Japanese Occupation. Many wrote short
stories. Among them were: Brigido Batungbakal, Macario Pineda, Serafin Guinigindo,
Liwayway Arceo, Narciso Ramos, NVM Gonzales, Alicia Lopez Lim, Ligaya Perez, and
Gloria Guzman.
The best writings in 1945 were selected by a group of judges composed of Francisco
Icasiano, Jose Esperanza Cruz, Antonio Rosales, Clodualdo del Mundo and Teodoro
Santos. As a result of this selection, the following got the first three prizes: First
Prize:Narciso Reyes with his LUPANG TINUBUAN Second Prize:Liwayway Arceo’s UHAW
ANG TIGANG NA LUPA Third Prize:NVM Gonzales’LUNSOD NAYON AT DAGAT-DAGATAN
D. PHILIPPINE LITERATURE IN ENGLISH (1941-1945)
Because of the strict prohibitions imposed b the Japanese in the writing and publishing
of works in English, Philippine literature in English experienced a dark period. The few
who dared to write did so for their bread and butter or for propaganda.
Writings that came out during this period were journalistic in nature. Writers felt
suppressed but slowly, the spirit of nationalism started to seep into their consciousness.
While some continued to write, the majority waited for a better climate to publish their
works.
Noteworthy writer of the period was Carlos P. Romulo who won the Pulitzer Prize for his
bestsellers I SAW THE FALL OF THE PHILIPPINES, I SEE THE PHILIPPINES RISE and his
MOTHER AMERICA AND MY BROTHER AMERICANS. Journalists include Salvador P.
Lopez, Leon Ma. Geurrero, Raul Manglapuz and Carlos Bulosan. Nick Joaquin
producedTHE WOMAN WHO LOOKED LIKE LAZARUS.Fred Ruiz Castro wrote a few
poems. F.B. Icasino wrote essays in The Philippine Review.
Carlos Bulosan’s works included THE LAUGHTER OF MY FATHER (1944), THE VOICE OF
BATAAN, 1943, SIX FILIPINO POETS, 1942, among others. Alfredo Litiatco published
With Harp and Sling and in 1943, Jose P. Laurel published Forces that Make a Nation
Great. The Commonwealth Literary Awards gave prizes to meritorious writers. Those
who won were:
29
1. LIKE THE MOLAVE –by Rafael Zulueta da Costa (Poetry)

2. HOW MY BROTHER LEON BROUGTH HOME A WIFE –by Manuel E. Arguilla
(Short Story)
3. LITERATURE AND SOCIETY –by Salvador P. Lopez (Essay)
4. HIS NATIVE SOIL –by Juan Laya (Novel)
President Manuel L. Quezon’s autobiography THE GOOD FIGHTwas published

posthumously. Radio broadcasts echoed the mingled fear and doubts in the hearts of the
people. Other writers of this period were Juan Collas (19440, Tomas Confesor (1945),
Roman A. de la Cruz and Elisa Tabuñar.
The Rebirth of Freedom (1946-1970)

The Americans returned in 1945. Filipinos rejoiced and guerillas who fled to the
mountain joined the liberating American Army. On July 4, 1946, the Philippines regained
is freedom and the Filipino flag waved joyously alone. The chains were broken.
A. THE STATE OF LITERATURE DURING THIS PERIOD
The early post-liberation period was marked by a kind of “struggle of mind and
spirit”posed by the sudden emancipation from the enemy, and the wild desire to see
print. Filipinos had, by this time, learned to express themselves more confidently but
post-war problems beyond language and print-like economic stability, the threat of new
ideas and mortality –had to be grappled with side by side. There was a proliferation of
newspapers like the FREE PRESS, MORNING SUN, of Sergio Osmeña Sr., DAILY MIRROR
of Joaquin Roces, EVENING NEWS of Ramon Lopezes and the BULLETIN of Menzi. This
only proved that there were more readers in English than in any ocher vernaculars like
Tagalog, Ilocano or Hiligaynon.
Journalists had their day. They indulged in more militant attitude in their reporting
which bordered on the libelous. Gradually, as normality was restored, the tones and
themes of the writings turned to the less pressing problems of economic survival. Some
Filipino writers who had gone abroad and had written during the interims came back to
publish their works. Not all the books published during the period reflected the war
year; some were compilations or second editions of what have been written before.
Some of the writers and their works of the periods are:
1. THE VOICE OF THE VETERAN –a compilation of the best works of some Ex-
USAFFE men like Amante Bigornia, Roman de la Cruz, Ramon de Jesus and J.F.
Rodriguez.
2. TWILIGHT IN TOKYO andPASSION and DEATH OF THE USAFFE by Leon Ma.
Guerrero FOR FREEDOM AND DEMOCRACY–by S.P. Lopez BETRAYAL IN THE
PHILIPPINES–by Hernando Abaya
3. SEVEN HILLS AWAY–by NVM Gonzales
30
POETRY IN ENGLISH DURING THIS PERIOD
For the first twenty years, many books were published…both in Filipino and in English.
Among the writers during this time were: Fred Ruiz Castro, Dominador I. Ilio, and C.B.
Rigor. Some notable works of the period include the following:
1. HEART OF THE ISLANDS (1947) –a collection of poems by Manuel Viray

2. PHILIPPINES CROSS SECTION (1950) –a collection of prose and poetry by
Maximo Ramos and Florentino Valeros
3. PROSE AND POEMS (1952) –by Nick Joaquin
4. PHILIPPINE WRITING (1953) –by T.D. Agcaoili
5. PHILIPPINE HAVEST –by Amador Daguio
6. HORIZONS LEAST (1967) –a collection of works by the professors of UE, mostly
in English (short stories, essays, research papers, poem and drama) by Artemio
Patacsil and Silverio Baltazar. The themes of most poems dealt with the usual
love of nature, and of social and political problems. Toribia Maño’s poems
showed deep emotional intensity.
7. WHO SPOKE OF COURAGE IN HIS SLEEP –by NVM Gonzales
8. SPEAK NOT, SPEAK ALSO –by Conrado V. Pedroche
9. Other poets were Toribia Maño and Edith L. Tiempo Jose Garcia Villa’s HAVE
COME, AM HERE won acclaim both here and abroad.
NOVELS AND SHORT STORIES IN ENGLISH
Longer and longer pieces were being written by writers of the period. Stevan Javellana’s
WITHOUT SEEING THE DAWN tells of the grim experiences of war during the Japanese
Occupation. In 1946, the Barangay Writer’s Project whose aim was to publish works in
English by Filipinos was established. In 1958, the PEN Center of the Philippines (Poets,
essayists, novelists) was inaugurated. In the same year, Francisco Arcellana published
his PEN ANTHOLOGY OF SHORT STORIES.
In 1961, Kerima Polotan’s novel THE HAND OF THE ENEMY won the Stonehill Award for
the Filipino novel in English. In 1968, Luis V. Teodoro Jr.’s short story THE ADVERSARY
won the Philippines Free Press short story award; in 1969, his story THE TRAIL OF
PROFESSOR RIEGO won second prize in the Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature and
in 1970, his short story THE DISTANT CITY won the GRAPHIC short story award.
THE NEW FILIPINO LITERATURE DURING THIS PERIOD
Philippines literature in Tagalog was revived during this period. Most themes in the
writings dealt with Japanese brutalities, of the poverty of life under the Japanese
government and the brave guerilla exploits. Newspapers and magazine publications were
reopened like the Bulaklak, Liwayway, Ilang Ilangand Sinag Tala. Tagalog poetry
acquired not only rhyme but substance and meaning. Short stories had better characters
and events based on facts and realities and themes were more meaningful. Novels
became common but were still read by the people for recreation.
The people’s love for listening to poetic jousts increased more than before and people
started to flock to places to hear poetic debates. Many books were published during this
time, among which were:
31
1. Mga Piling Katha (1947-48) by Alejandro Abadilla

2. Ang Maikling Kuwentong Tagalog (18861948) by Teodoro Agoncillo
3. Ako’y Isang Tinig (1952) collection of poems and stories by Genoveva Edroza
Matute
4. Mga Piling Sanaysay (1952) by Alejandro Abadilla
5. Maikling Katha ng Dalawampung Pangunahing Autor (1962) by A.G. Abadilla and
Ponciano E.P. Pineda
6. Parnasong Tagalog (1964) collection of selected poems by Huseng Sisiw and
Balagtas, collected by A.G. Abadilla
7. Sining at Pamamaraan ng Pag-aaral ng Panitikan (1965) by Rufino Alejandro.
He prepared this book for teaching in reading and appreciation of poems,
dramas, short stories and novels
8. Manlilikha, Mga Piling Tula (1961-1967) by Rogelio G. Mangahas
9. Mga Piling Akda ng Kadipan (Kapisanang Aklat ng Diwa at Panitik) 1965 by Efren
Abueg
10. Makata (1967) first cooperative effort to publish the poems of 16 poets in
Pilipino
11. Pitong Dula (1968) by Dionisio Salazar
12. Manunulat: Mga Piling Akdang Pilipino (1970) by Efren Abueg. In this book,
Abueg proved that it is possible to have a national integration of ethnic culture
in our country.
13. Mga Aklat ni Rizal: Many books about Rizal came out during this period. The
law ordering the additional study of the life of Rizal helped a lot in activating our
writers to write books about Rizal.
PALANCA AWARDS
Another inspiration for writers in Filipino was the launching of the Palanca Memorial
Awards for literature headed by Carlos Palanca Sr. in 1950. (Until now, the awards are
still being given although the man who founded it has passed away). The awards were
given to writers of short stories, plays and poetry. The first awardees in its first year,
1950-51 in the field of the short story were the following:
a) First Prize:KUWENTO NI MABUTI by Genoveva Edroza

b) Second Prize:MABANGIS NA KAMAY…MAAMONG KAMAY by Pedro S. Dandan
c) Third Prize:PLANETA, BUWAN AT MGA BITUIN by Elpidio P. Kapulong
Period of Activism (1970-1972)

According to Pociano Pineda, youth activism in 1970-72 was due to domestic and
worldwide causes. Activism is connected with the history of our Filipino youth. Because
of the ills of society, the youth moved to seek reforms. Some continued to believe that
the democratic government is stable and that it is only the people running the
government who are at fault. Some believed that socialism or communism should
replace democracy. Some armed groups were formed to bring down the democratic
form of government. Many young people became activists to ask for changes in the
government. In the expression of this desire for change, keen were the writings of
32
some youth who were fired with nationalism in order to emphasize the importance of
their petitions. Many young activists were imprisoned in military camps together with
rebel writers. As early as this period of history we can say that many of those writers
who were imprisoned were true nationalists and heroes of their time. Many books aptly
record and embody these times but many of these are not known to many and many of
these writers still have to be interviewed. We just leave to scholars and researchers the
giving of credit where credit is due.
A. THE SEED OF ACTIVISM
The seeds of activism resulted in the declaration of Martial Law in 1972. We can,
however, say that he seeds were earlier sown from the times of Lapu-lapu, Lakandula,
and Rizal. The revolution against the powerful forces in the Philippines can be said to be
the monopoly of the youth in whose veins flow the fire in their blood. What Rizal said of
the youth being the hope of the Fatherland –is still valid even today.
B. PERIOD OF THE BLOODY PLACARDS
Pineda also said that this was the time when the youth once more proved that it is not
the constant evasion that shapes our race and nationalism. There is a limit to one’s
patience. It may explode like a volcano if overstrained. Life? What avails like if one is a
coward who does not take a stand for himself and for the succeeding generations?
C. THE LITERARY REVOLUTION
The youth became completely rebellious during this period. This was proven not only in
the bloody demonstrations and in the sidewalk expressions but also in literature.
Campus newspapers showed rebellious emotions. The once aristocratic writers
developed awareness for society. They held pens and wrote on placards in red paint the
equivalent of the word MAKIBAKA (To dare!). They attacked the ills of society and
politics. Any establishment became the symbol of the ills that had to be changed. The
frustrations of youth could be felt in churches and school. Even the priests, teachers
and parents, as authorities who should be respected became targets of the radical youth
and were thought of as hindrances to the changes they sought. The literature of the
activists reached a point where they stated boldly what should be done to effect these
changes. Some of those who rallied to this revolutionary form of literature were Rolando
Tinio, Rogelio Mangahas, Efren Abueg, Rio Alma, and Clemente Bautista.
WRITING DURING THE PERIOD OF ACTIVISM
The irreverence for the poor reached its peak during this period of the mass revolution.
It was also during this period that Bomba films that discredit our ways as Filipinos
started to come out.
PALANCA AWARDEES FOR LITERATURE IN ENGLISH (Established in 1950, the Palanca

Memorial Awards for Literature had been giving cash prizes for short story, poetry and
one-act play writing as an incentive to Filipino writers. The prizes come from La
Tondena, Inc., the firm founded by the late Carlos Palanca Sr. For the list of winners
from 1950-51 to 1960-70, we recommended Alberto S. Florentino’s “Twenty Years of
Palanca Awards.”)
33
ENGLISH SHORT STORY
1970-71
First Prize –“THE RITUAL”–Cirilo F. Bautista Second Prize –“BEAST IN THE FIELDS”–Resil
Mojares Third Prize –“CHILDREN OF THE CITY”– Amadis Ma. Guerrero
1970-71 First Prize –“THE ARCHIPELAGO”–Cirilo F. Bautista Second Prize –“FIVE

POEMS”–Wilfredo Pascua Sanchez Third Prize –“FROM MACTAN TO MENDIOLA”–
Frederico Licsi Espino Jr.
ENGLISH ONE-ACT PLAY
1970-71 First Prize –“THE GROTESQUE AMONG US” –Maiden Flores
ENGLISH POETRY
1971-72 First Prize –“THE TOMATO GAME”–N.V.M. Gonzales Second Prize –“THE
APOLLO CENTENNIAL”– Gregorio C. Brillantes Third Prize –“AFTER THIS, OUR EXILE”–
Elsa Martinez Coscolluela 1971-72 First Prize –“BATIK MAKER AND OTHER POEMS”–
Virginia R. Moreno Second Prize –“THE EDGE OF THE WIND”– Artemio Tadena Third
Prize –“TINIKLING (A SHEAF OF POEMS)” –Frederico Licsi Espino Jr. 1971-72 First Prize
–“GRAVE FOR BLUE FLOWER”– Jesus T. Peralta Second Prize –“THE UNDISCOVERED
COUNTRY”–Manuel M. Martell Third Prize –The judges recommend that in as much as
the three third prize winners especially deserve, the prize of P 1,000.00 be divided
among these three: “THE BOXES”–Rolando S. Tinio “NOW IS THE TIME FOR ALL GOOD
MEN TO COME TO THE AID OF THEIR COUNTRY”– Julian E. Dacanay “THE RENEGADE”–
Elsa Martinez Coscolluela
WRITERS DURING THIS PERIOD
Jose F. Lacaba, in his book DAYS OF DISQUIET, NIGHTS OF RAGE; THE FIRST
QUARTERS STORM AND RELATED EVENTS, wrote of the tragic and tumultuous moments
in our country’s history. Describing this period, he writes: “That first quarter of the year
1970…It was a glorious time, a time of terror and of wrath, but also a time for hope.
The signs of change were on the horizon. A powerful storm was sweeping the land, a
storm whose inexorable advance no earthly force could stop, and the name of the storm
was history.”
He mentions that those students demonstrating at that time knew and were aware that
what they were doing would be crucial to our country’s history. Student leaders thought
up grandiose names for their organizations and hence, the proliferation of acronyms
likes SUCCOR, YDS, KTPD, SAGUPA, SMP, KKK, KM, MDP, and SDK. Politicians endorsed
bills for those who interfered with student demonstrators. Mayor Antonio Villegas
himself, on Feb. 18, 1970, led demonstrators away from angry policemen. Other
politicians like Eva Estrada Kalaw, and Salvador Laurel, Benigno Aquino Jr. wrote about
condemnation of police brutalities. Lacaba’s book is truly representative of writers who
were eyewitnesses to this time “of terror and wrath.”
Other writers strove to pour out their anguish and frustrations in words describing
themselves as “gasping for the air, thirsting for the water of freedom.”Thus, the
Philippine Center for the International PEN (Poets, Essayists, and Novelists) held a
conference centering on the “writer’s lack of freedom in a climate of fear.” For a day
34
they denounced restrictions on artistic freedom and passionately led a plea for freedom.
Among the writers in this group were: Nick Joaquin, S.P. Lopez, Gregorio Brillantes, F.
Sionil Jose, Petronilo Daroy, Letty Jimenez-Magsanoc, Mauro Avelina, and Jose W.
Diokno.
People in the other media participated in this quest for freedom. Journalists Jose Burgos
Jr., Antonio Ma. Nieva,; movie director Lino Brocka, art critic Anna Leah S. de Leon were
battling head –on against censorship. They came up with resolutions that pleaded for
causes other than their own –like the general amnesty for political prisoners, and other
secret decrees restricting free expression. They requested editors and publishers to
publish the real names of writers in their columns. It called on media to disseminate
information on national interest without partisan leanings and resolved to be united with
all causes decrying oppression and repression.
Period of the New Society (1972-1980)

The period of the New Society started on September 21, 1972. The Carlos Palanca
Awards continued to give annual awards. Almost all themes in most writings dealt with
the development or progress of the country –like the Green Revolution, family planning,
proper nutrition, environment, drug addiction and pollution. The New Society tried to
stop pornography or those writings giving bad influences on the morals of the people.
All school newspapers were temporarily stopped and so with school organizations. The
military government established a new office called the Ministry of Public Affairs that
supervised the newspapers, books and other publications. The government took part in
reviving old plays like the Cenaculo, the Zarzuela and the Embayoka of the Muslims.
The Cultural Center of the Philippines, the Folk Arts Theater and even the old
Metropolitan Theater were rebuilt in order to have a place for these plays. Singing both
Filipino and English songs received fresh incentives. Those sent abroad promoted many
Filipino songs. The weekly publications like KISLAP, and LIWAYWAY helped a lot in the
development of literature. These became outlets for our writers to publish many of their
works.
A. FILIPINO POETRY DURING THE PERIOD OF THE NEW SOCIETY
Themes of most poems dealt with patience, regard for native culture, customs and the
beauties of nature and surroundings. Those who wrote poetry during this period were:
Ponciano Pineda, Aniceto Silvestre, Jose Garcia Revelo, Bienvenido Ramos, Vicente
Dimasalang, Cir Lopez Francisco, and Pelagio Sulit Cruz. Many more composers added
their bit during this period. Among them were Freddie Aguilar, Jose Marie Chan and the
group Tito, Vic and Joey. ANAK of Freddie Aguilar became an instant success because of
the spirit and emotions revealed in the song. There were even translations in Japanese
and in other languages.
B. THE PLAY UNDER THE NEW SOCIETY
The government led in reviving old plays and dramas, like the Tagalog Zarzuela,
Cenaculo and the Embayoka of the Muslims which were presented in the rebuilt
Metropolitan Theater, the Folk Arts Theater and the Cultural Center of the Philippines.
Many schools and organizations also presented varied plays. The Mindanao State
University presented a play Sining Embayoka at the Cultural Center of the Philippines. In
35
1977, the Tales of Manuvu, a new style of rock of the ballet opera was also added to
these presentations. This was performed by Celeste Legaspi, Lea Navarro, Hadji
Alejandro, Boy Camara, Anthony Castello, Rey Dizon and choreographed by Alic Reyes.
Even the President’s daughter at the time participated as a performing artist in the
principal role of Santa Juana of Koral and in The Diary of Anne Frank.
The following organizations contributed a lot to the development of plays during this
period:
1. PETA of Cecille Guidote and Lino Brocka

2. Repertory Philippines: of Rebecca Godines and Zenaida Amador
3. UP Repertory of Behn Cervantes
4. Teatro Filipino by Rolando Tinio
C. RADIO AND TELEVISION
Radio continued to be patronized during this period. The play series like SI MATAR,
DAHLIA, ITO AND PALAD KO, and MR. LONELY were the forms of recreation of those
without television. Even the new songs were first heard over the airwaves. However,
many performing artists in radio moved over to television because of higher pay. Among
these were Augusto Victa, Gene Palomo, Mely Tagasa, Lina Pusing, and Ester Chavez.
Popular television plays were GULONG NG PALAD, FLOR DE LUNA, and ANNA LIZA.
SUPERMAN AND TARZAN were also popular with the youth.
D. FILIPINO FILMS
A yearly Pista ng mga Pelikulng Pilipino (Yearly Filipino Film Festival) was held during
this time. During the festival which lasted usually for a month, only Filipino films were
shown in all theaters in Metro Manila. Prizes and trophies were awarded at the end of
the festival in recognition of excellence in film making and in role performances.
New kinds of films without sex or romance started to be made but which were
nevertheless well-received by the public. Among these were:
1. MAYNILA…SA MGA KUKO NG LIWANAG written by Edgardo Reyes and filmed

under the direction of Lino Brocka. Bembol Roco was the lead role.
2. MINSA’Y ISANG GAMU-GAMO; Nora Aunor was the principal performer here.
3. GANITO KAMI NOO…PAANO KAYO NGAYON: led by Christopher de Leon and
Gloria Diaz.
4. INSIANG: by Hilda Koronel
5. AGUILA: led by Fernando Poe Jr., Jay Ilagan and Christopher de Leon Sex films
could not be shelved. Foreign, as well as local films dealing the bold themes
were the vehicles of producers to earn more money.
E. COMICS, MAGAZINES AND OTHER PUBLICATIONS
During this period of the New Society, newspapers donned new forms. News on
economic progress, discipline, culture, tourism and the like were favored more than the
sensationalized reporting of killings, rape and robberies. The leading papers during this
period were:
1. BULLETIN TODAY
36
2. PILIPINO EXPRESS
3. TIMES JOURNAL
4. PHILIPPINE DAILY EXPRESS
5. PEOPLES JOURNAL
6. EVENING POST
7. BALITA
8. EVENING EXPRESS
LIWAYWAY had been an old-time favorite of the Filipinos since 1920. Other magazines
were:
1. KISLAP
2. EXTRA HOT
3. BULAKLAK
4. JINGLE SENSATION
Like mushrooms, comics lso proliferated everywhere and were enjoyed by the masses.
Among these were:
1. PILIPINO
2. HIWAGA
3. EXTRA
4. KLASIK
5. LOVE LIFE
6. ESPESYAL
F. PALANCA AWARDEES
SHORT STORY CATEGORY
1972-73
First Prize –“SPOTS ON THEIR WINGS AND OTHER STORIES”–Antonio Enriquez Second
Prize –“ON FRIENDS YOU PIN SUCH HOPES”–Ines Taccad Camayo Third Prize –“THE
LIBERATION OF MRS. FIDELA MAGSILANG”–Jaime A. Lim
1973-74
First Prize –“THE CRIES OF CHILDREN ON AN APRIL AFTERNOON IN THE YEAR 1957”–
Gregorio C. Brillantes Second Prize –“THE WHITE DRESS”– Estrella D. Alfon Third Prize –
“TELL ME WHO CLEFT THE DEVIL’S FOOT”–Luning Bonifacio Ira Honorable Mention–
“SCORING”–Joy T. Dayrit
1974-75
First Prize –co-winners 1. “THE DAY OF THE LOCUSTS”–Leoncio P. Deriada 2.

“ROMANCE AND FAITH ON MOUNT BANAHAW”–Alfred A. Yuson Second Prize –co-
winners 1. “THE MAN WHO MADE A COVENANT WITH THE WIND”–Cirilo F. Bautista 2.
“ONCE UPON A CRUISE: GENERATIONS AND OTHER LANDSCAPES”–Luning Bonifacio Ira
3. “AGCALAN POINT”–Jose Y. Dalisay, Jr.
37
Third Prize –co-winners 1. “THE DOG EATERS”–Leoncio P. Deriada 2. “THE PEOPLE’S

PRISON”–Mauro R. Avena 3. “DISCOVERY”–Dr. Porfirio F. Villarin, Jr. 4. “A SUMMER
GOODBYE”–Linda Ledesma and Benjamin Bautista
PLAY CATEGORY
1972-73
First Prize –“THE HEART OF EMPTINESS IS BLACK”–Ricardo Demetillo
Second Prize –“GO, RIDER!”–Azucena Crajo Uranza Third Prize –“THE RICEBIRD HAS
BROWN WINGS”–Federico Licsi Espino, Jr. 1973-74 First Prize (No Award) Second Prize
–“AFTERCAFE –Juan H. Alegre Third Prize –“DULCE EXTRANJERA”– Wilfredo D. Nollede
1974-75 First Prize –“A LIFE IN THE SLUMS”– Rolando S. Tinio
Second Prize –“PASSWORD –Paul Stephen Lim Third Prize –“THE MINERVA
FOUNDATION” –Maidan Flores
POETRY CATEGORY
1972-73
First Prize –“CHARTS”–Cirilo F. Bautista Second Prize –“A TRICK OF MIRRORS”– Rolando
S. Tinio Third Prize –“ALAPAAP’S MOUNTAIN”– Erwin E. Castillo
1973-74
First Prize –co-winners 1. “MONTAGE”–Ophelia A. Dimalanta 2. “IDENTITIES”–Artemio

Tadena Second Prize –co-winners 1. “BOXES”–Ricardo de Ungria 2. “GLASS OF LIQUID
TRUTHS”–Gilbert A. Luis Centina III Third Prize –co-winners 1. “A LIEGE OF DATUS
AND OTHER POEMS”– Jose N. Carreon 2. “RITUALS AND METAPHORS”–Celestino M.
Vega
1974-75
First Prize –“TELEX MOON”–Cirilo F. Bautista Second Prize –“ADARNA: SIX POEMS FROM
A LARGER CORPUS”–Wilfredo Pascua Sanchez Third Prize –“THE CITY AND THE
THREAD OF LIGHT”–Ricardo Demetillo
REPUBLIC CULTURAL HERITAGE AWARDEES (1960-1971)
NATIONAL ARTISTS 1973 Amado V. Hernandez (Posthumous) (Literature)
Jose Garcia Villa (Literature) Francisco Reyes Aquino (Dance) Carlos V. Francisco
(Posthumous) (Painting) Antonio J. Molina (Music) Guillermo Tolentino (Sculpture) 1976
Nick Joaquin (Literature) Napoleon V. Abueva (Sculpture) Pablo Antonio (Posthumous)
(Architecture) Lamberto V. Avellana (Movies) Victorio G. Edades (Painting) Jovita
Fuentes (Music)
G. AN OVERVIEW OF THE LITERATUE DURING THE NEW SOCIETY
Bilingual education which was initiated by the Board of National Education as early as
1958 and continued up to the period of Martial Rule in September 21, 1972, resulted in
the deterioration of English in the different levels of education. The focus of education
and culture was on problems of national identity, on re-orientation, renewed vigor and a
firm resolves to carry out plans and programs. The forms of literature that led during
38
this period wee the essays, debates and poetry. The short stories, like the novels and
plays were no different in style from those written before the onset of activism.
Some of the books that came out during this period were: a) I Married a Newspaperman
(essay) by Maria Luna Lopez (wife of newsapaperman Salvador B. Lopez), 1976 b) The
Modern Filipino Short Story by Patricia Melendrez Cruz, 1980 c) Cross Currents in Afro-
Asian Literature, by Rustica D. Carpio, 1976 d) Brief Time to Love by Ofelia F. Limcaco
Medium Rare and Tell the People (feature articles and TV Program) by Julie Yap Daza
Period of the Third Republic (1981-1985)

After ten years of military rule and some changes in the life of the Filipino which started
under the New Society, Martial Rule was at last lifted on January 2, 1981. To those in
government, the lifting of military rule heralded a change. To their perceptions, the
Philippines became a new nation and this; former President Marcos called “The New
Republic of the Philippines.” A historian called this the Third Republic. The First Republic
he claimed was during the Philippine Republic of Emilio Aguinaldo when we first got our
independence form the Spaniards on June 12, 1898.
The Second was when the Americans granted us our independence on July 4, 1946.
This period, January 2, 1981, was the Third Republic when we were freed from Military
Rule. During this period, it cannot be denied that many people seethed with rebellion
and protest because of the continued oppression and suppression. This was further
aggravated when former Senator Benigno S. Aquno Jr., the idol of the Filipino masses,
whom they hoped to be the next president, was president, was brutally murdered on
August 21, 1983.This stage of the nation had its effect on our literature. After the
Aquino assassinated, the people’s voices could no long be contained. Both the public
and private sectors in government were chanting, and shouting; women, men and the
youth became bolder and their voices were raised in dissent.We can say that Philippine
literature, in spite of the many restrictions, still surreptitiously retained its luster.
THE PALANCA AWARDS
The Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for literature which was launched in 1950 (see
Chapter 7, The Renaissance Period), continued its recognition of the best in the literary
fields –poetry, short story, essays, and the one and three-act plays.
In 1981, the winners were the following: First Prize:Jessie B. Garcia’s –“In Hog Heaven”
Second Prize:Luning Bonifacio –Ira’s “The Party Hopper” Third Prize:Jesus Q. Cruz –“In
These Hallowed Halls” In 1982, those who won were: First Prize:“Heart Island”by Jose
Dalisay Jr. Second Prize:“Pas de Deux”by Azucena Grajo Uranza Third Prize:“The Sky Is
Always Blue”by Joe Marie A. Abueg
In 1983, the mood was restive, characteristics of the times. The nation was angry after
the murder of opposition leader Benigno Aquino but the awards ceremonies continued
after a delay. The winners are: First Prize:“Oldtimer”by Jose Dalisay Jr. Second
Prize:“Games”by Jesus O. Cruz Third Prize:“Perfect Sunday”by Jose Y. Ayala First Prize in
poetry (Pilipino): Jose F. Lacaba Second Prize (English essay): Gregorio Brillantes Third
Prize (English essay): Adrian Cristobal
39
In 1984, the winners were: First Prize:“The Reprieve”by Susan S. Lara Second Prize:“The
Tangerine Gumamela” by Sylvia Mendez Ventura Third Prize co-winner:“The Little Wars
of Filemon Sayre”by Lemuel Torrevillas Third Prize:“Stranger in an Asian City”by
Gregorio Brillantes In 1985, those who won were: First Prize: “The Hand of God” by
Conrado de Quiros. First Prize:“A Novel Prize for Jorge” by Eli Ang Barroso No awards
for second prize Third Prize:“Mecca of the East”by Charles Loong
In 1984, the Palanca Awards started choosing the best in novel writing. This contest,
held every three years, gives time for local writers to write more beautiful and quality
works. The next contest on the best novel was held in 1987. La Tondeña continues to
be its sponsor.
B. FILIPINO POETRY
Poems during this period of the Third Republic were romantic and revolutionary. Writers
wrote openly of their criticism against the government. The supplications of the people
were coached in fiery, colorful, violent, profane and insulting language.
C. FILIPINO SONGS
Many Filipino songs dealt with themes that were really true-to-life like those of grief,
poverty, aspirations for freedom, love of God, of country and of fellowmen. Many
composers, grieved over Ninoy Aquino’s treacherous assassination composed songs.
Among them were Coritha, Eric and Freddie Aguilar. Coritha and Eric composed asong
titles LABAN NG BAYAN KO and this was first sung by Coritha during the National
Unification Conference of the Opposition in March, 1985. This was also sung during the
Presidential Campaign Movement for Cory Aquino to inspire the movement against
Marcos in February 1986. Freddie Aguilar revived the song BAYAN KO which was written
by Jose Corazon de Jesus and C. de Guzman during the American period.
D. PHILIPPINE FILMS DURING THE PERIOD
The yearly Festival of Filipino Films continued to be held during this period. The people’s
love for sex films also was unabated. Many producers took advantage of this at the
expense of public morality.
E. POETRY IN ENGLISH DURING THE THIRD REPUBLIC
Most especially, during the wake of the tragic Benigno Aquino Jr.’s incident, people
reacted with shock, appalled by the suddenness and the unexpectedness of events.
Alfredo Navarro Salanga, a consistent writer of Philippines Panorama Magazine in his
column “Post-Prandal Reflections”aptly said it: “darkness in the mind and soul is how
some forgotten poet puts it. Its suddenness was so profound that we couldn’t but react
to it in any other way.” Elemental to us (poets or writers) was how to grasp to some
meaning –in a symbol, a phrase or word –in the language of heart and tongue, the
poet’s only candles. So we tried to reach out in the next and perhaps the only way we
could: by putting pen to paper and speaking out –as partisans in a human drama. Poets,
surprisingly, by common consent, found themselves writing on a common subject.
Reproduction of some of them is reprinted here. We aptly call them Protest Poetry of
the ‘80’s.
The themes of most during this time dealt with courage, shock and grief over the
“treachery inflicted upon Aquino.” F. MEDIA OF 1983 Sheila S. Coronel, a PANORAMA
40
staff stalwart, reporting on the state of the media during these times said: it was a year
of ferment, and change, of old problems made more oppressive by the new throbbing
beat of the times.” For journalists, it was a year loaded with libel charges, lawsuits and
seditious trials which they gallantly bore as harassment suits.
JAJA (Justice for Aquino, Justice for All) Movement called for a boycott of government –
controlled newspapers in protest of media suppression. People picketed newspapers
offices with coffins to symbolize the death of press freedom. In campuses, newspapers
were set afire to protest lack of free expression. Journalists suffered physically and
otherwise. Journalists of 3 major dailies demanded a dialogue with their publishers to
“restore credibility and respectability”to newspapers.
Opposition tabloids flourished. They sold our papers with the red news to the starved
public; hence, smut magazines like the TIKTIK, PLAYBOY SCENE, and SAKDAL also
played the sidewalks. Radio led by RADIO VERITAS started reporting coverage of
demonstrations. Information Minister Gregorio Cendaña called the tabloids the
“mosquito press”and called their new “political pornography.” However, there was a
perceptible liberalization of editorial policies in the major newspapers.
G. CHILDREN’S BOOKS
Among the well-loved forms of writing which abounded during this period were those of
children’s stories. The Children’s Communication Center (CCC) directed by poet and
writer Virgilio S. Almario already has built up an impressive collection of these kinds of
books. The following are some of the books of the period. 1982:PLAYS FOR CHILDREN
by JameB. Reuter S.J. (New Day Pub.) 1983:STORY TELLING FOR YOUNG CHILDREN
1983:JOSE AND CARDO by Peggy Corr Manuel
1983:Joaquinesquerie: MYTH A LA MOD (CachoHermanos) 1983:LAHI: 5 FILIPINO FOLK

TALES (of 5 English books and 1 cassette tape) 1984:RIZALIANA FOR CHILDREN:
ILLUSTRATIONS and FOLKTALES by: Jose P. Rizal, Intoducedand annotated by Alfredo
Navarro Salanga 1984:GATAN AND TALAW by Jaime Alipit Montero
H. (PROSE) FABLES
The people’s cry of protest found outlets not only in poetry but also in veiled prose
fables which transparently satirized the occupants of Malacañang. Among those that
saw prints were:
1. The Crown Jewels of Heezenhurstby Sylvia Mendez Ventura

2. The Emperor’s New Underwear by MeynardoA. Macaraig
3. The King’s Cold by BabethLolarga
4. The Case of the Missing Charisma (unfinished) by Sylvia L. Mayuga.
In all the fables, the king, differently referred to as TotusMarkus or the king or Haring
Matinikwas meant to poke fun at the ruler at Malacañang; similarly, Reyna Maganda or
the Queen, was a veiled thrust at his queen. They were both drunk with power and
were punished in the end for their misdeeds.
41
I. THE STATE OF PHILIPPINE LITERATURE IN ENGLISH AT THIS TIME
Isagani Cruz, writing about Philippine literature in the “Age of Ninoy,”makes the
following observations: “Philippines literature is definitely changing,” and he summarizes
these as follows:
1. Change in the direction of greater consciousness in content and form.

2. Change in the number of readers and the number of writers and the kind of class
of writers. Writers who joined the ranks came not only from the established or
professional groups but from all ranks –clerks, secretaries, drivers, housewives,
students; in short, the masses.
3. The resurgence of Balagtasismo and the continued dominance of Modernismo.
While Balagtasismo turned its back on the American challenge to Philippine
literature its conservative conventions, Modernismo adapted Americanization for
its own ends.
4. The birth of a new poetic movement still dims in outline.
5. The apparent merging of the erstwhile separate streams of oral and written
literature.
J. SOME WRITERS DURING THIS PERIOD
1981-85 1981:PHILIPPINE FOLK LITERATURE by Damiana Eugenio 1981:ADVENTURES

OF MARIAN by Carissa OrosaUy 1982:SOMEWHERE BETWEEN YOUR SMILE AND YOUR
FROWN AND OTHER POEMS by Bienvenido M. NoeigaJr. 1983:PARES-PARES by
Bienvenido M. Noriega Jr. 1983:AGON: POEMS, 1983 by Edgar B. Maranan 1984:THE
FARMER by Alfredo Navarro Salanga 1984:THE ROAD TO MOWAB AND OTHER STORIES
by LeoncioP. Deriada
Periods (1986-1999)
History took another twist. Once more, the Filipino people regained their independence
which they lost twenty years ago. In the span of four days form February 2125, 1986,
the so-called People Power (Lakas ng Bayan) prevailed. Together, the people barricaded
the streets petitioning the government for changes and reforms. Freedom became a
reality –won through a peaceful, bloodless and God-blessed revolution. Philippine society
was in turmoil for a few weeks but the rejoicing after the Pres. Marcos was toppled
down from power was sheer euphoria. Singing, dancing and shouting’s were the order
of the day.
The events created overnight heroes. In this historical event, the role played by two big
figures in history cannot be doubted. To Defense Minister Juan Ponce Enrileand Armed
Forces Chief of Staff Fidel V. Ramos, as well as to the cause of freedom do the Filipinos
owe their gratitude for the blessing of Independence? To the Filipino people, this is the
true Philippine Republic, the true Republic of the Philippines.
A. THE STATE OF LITERATURE DURING THIS PERIOD
In the short span of the existence of the true Republic of the Philippines, several
changes already became evident. This in noticed in the new Filipino songs, in the
newspapers, in the speeches, and even in the television programs.
42
1. On Newspapers and other publications: Newspapers which were once branded

crony newspapers became instant opposition papers overnight. This was true of
BULLETIN TODAY which became the opposition paper. The now crony
newspapers that enjoyed an overnight increase in circulation were THE
INQUIRER, MALAYA, and the PEOPLE’S JOURNAL.Newspapers felt that the
shackles that muzzled their voices during the repressive years had been broken
and, like a bird “trying its wings after a long time of bondage,”the desire to write
about this “miracle of change”was electric.Columnists became vocal and
unrestricted in there are and a bumper crop of young journalists emerged. The
old stalwarts of the former dispensation like MaximoSoliven, Louie Beltran,
Hilarion Henares, and Francisco Soc Rodrigo came back with a vengeance.By
June 12, 1986, a total of 19 local dailies both in English and Filipino were in
circulation. Nowhere since the 1950’s had there been such a big number of
newspapers in circulation (excluding tabloids).These newspapers include:
BULLETIN, TEMPO, BALITA, MALAY, MIDDAY, MASA, MANILA TIMES, NEWS
HERALD, TRIBUNE, NGAYON, INQUIRER, EXPRESS TONIGHT, EVENING POST,
PEOPLE’S, DAILY MIRROR, BUSINESS DAY, and MANILA CHRONICLE.
2. On Books: Philippine literature is still in the making…we are just beginning a
new era. The Phillippine revolution of 1986 and the fire of its spirit that will carry
the Filipinos through another epoch in Philippine history is still being documented
just as they have been in the countless millions who participated in body and
spirit in its realization. Two books were conceived during the period. PEOPLE
POWER was produced under a grant by the PCI Bank Human Resources
Development Foundation, edited by Monina Allarey Mercado and published by the
James B. Reuter, S.J. Foundation. Another one BAYAN KO was published by
Project 28 Days LTD. in June, 1986 in Kowloon, Hong Kong and co-published in
the Philippines by Veritas Publications and Communications Foundation. In March
19, 1987 the Seventh National Book Awards cited several best books published in
1987 according to the choices made by the Manila Critics Circle. Among those
awarded were: Dreamweavers Selected Poems (19761986) by Marjorie Pernia
and Awitat Corrido: Philippine Metrical Romances by DamianaL. Eugenio.Bookfair
Manila ’88 organized by the Philippine Exhibit Company was held on February 20-
28, 1988. It was held with the belief that “requisition of knowledge not only
enhances individual skills and capabilities but more importantly, makes positive
contributions to the nation’s development program.”
B. FILIPINO SONGS DURING THIS PERIOD
Here are a few Filipino songs that were often heard. They were often aired in radio and
television and often accompanied the historical events that transpired in the Philippines
and gained for the Filipinos world-wide acclaim.
An album named HANDOG NG PILIPINO SA MUNDO carried a compilation of some of

these. The song that continued to be sung throughout the trying period of the
Revolution, almost like a second national anthem and which gave fire to the Filipino
spirit was BAYAN KO. Its lyrics were written by Jose Corazon de Jesus way back in
1928.
43
1.4 The Great Filipino Literary Writers in English and their

masterpieces.
1. AMERICAN PERIOD (1898-1941)

1. Period of Re-Orientation 1898-1910 Air Castles (Poetry) by Juan F. Salazar (1909-
1910)
2. Period of Imitation 1911-1925 (American Period) The Sea by Natividad Marquez
(Poetry)
3. Period of Self Discovery (1925-1941) Poetry 1896 by Aurelio Alvero To a Lost
One by Angela ManalangGloria Prayer of a Student by Trinidad L. Tarrosa Subido.
Short Story Dead Stars by Paz Marquez-Benitez The Making of A Writer by
Salvador P. Lopez Shadow and Solitude (A translation of Solo Entre Las Sombras)
by Claro M. Recto translated by Nick Joaquin
2. THE JAPANESE PERIOD (1941-1945) To My Native Land by Tarrosa Subido My
Father’s Tragedy by Carlos Bulosan Shall We Walk? by Pura Santillan Castrence
3. THE REBIRTH OF FREEDOM (1946-1970) Poetry When I see a Barong-Barong by
Maximo Ramos (1946) Short Story Plighted Word by Narciso G. Reyes Scent of
Apples by Bienvenido Santos Cadaver by Alberto S. Florentino They Called It
“BROTHERHOOD”by Maximo V. Soliven
4. PERIOD OF ACTIVISM (1970-1972) Valedictorian sa Hillcrest niRolando Tinio Beggar
Children by Emmanuel Torres
5. PERIOD OF THE NEW SOCIETY (1972-1980) Poetry Philosopher’s Love Song by
TitaLacambraAyala The Tomato Game by N.V.M. Gonzales I Married a
Newspaperman by Maria LunaLopez 6. PERIOD OF THE THIRD REPUBLIC (198185)
Poetry Death Like Stone for BenignoS. Aquino Jr. from PHILIPPINPANORAMA Fables
The Emperor’s New Underwear by MynardoA. Macaraig
The Crown Jewels of Heezenhurstby Sylvia Mendez Ventura The King’s Cold by Babeth
Lolarga Short Story Hunger by Gilda Cordero-Fernando Play Sepang Loca by Amelia
Lapeña-Bonifacio Speech Aquino’s Speech in Singapore President Aquino’s Speech before
the U.S. Congress Cory Bats for the Rights of the World’s Oppressed
Literary Compositions from 1986-1999
Life goes on and the world continues in its process of undergoing a real historical
transition with altering social, political, moral and aesthetic values inevitably leaving its
imprint in literature. And, as Salvador Lopez aptly said in his Literature and
Society:“Absolute divorcement from the world by writers is impossible, for literature is, in
some way, rooted in the earth of human experience.” The writer must, therefore, be a
man of historic propensities reacting to the socialpolitical currents of his time and striving
earnestly to change the world, knowing that society has a claim on his attention. The
years 1986-1999 –a span of 14 years, cover the careers of three presidents: Corazon C.
Aquino, Fidel V. Ramos and Joseph EjercitoEstrada. Spates of literary enthusiasm
continue unabated, unhampered by compelling handicaps, hard times and the transient
problems of the period.
Thus, as we present some of the credible works of our writers during these periods
which had been judged as “contest winner”and may therefore, in the words of Edith
44
Tiempo, be acknowledged as “pretested literature,”we leave the learners to their own

particular definition of literary trends and qualities based on the social attitudes and the
moral commitments of a nation as revealed through the works of its writers. These
pieces, though randomly selected, are part of what we may term, the undaunted
expression of the Filipino propensities revealing the Filipino psyche. It is also notable
that The Cultural Center of the Philippines, with the Philippine Centennial Commission,
has chosen 100 outstanding awardees that have “helped build the nation through their
achievements in arts and culture from 1898 to 1998.”The list excludes those in film,
broadcast arts and theater.
Briefly, we mention those chosen for recognition in literature: TeodoroAgoncillo Virgilio

Almario Manuel Aguilla Carlos Bulosan Jose Corazon de Jesus Isabelode los Reyes
DamianaEugenio Gilda Cordero-Fernando LucilaHosillos Emmanuel Lacaba Jose Lacaba
Salvador Lopez Bienvenido Lumbera RosilMojares Claro M. Recto EpifanioSan Juan, Jr.
Lope K. Santos Juan CrisostomoSotto Vicente Sotto
As an incentive, the Centennial Literary Prize would be doubled for that millennium for
all categories (novel, poetry, essay, drama and screenplay) according to President
Estrada so that the first prize would be P 2 million; second, P 1.5 million and third, P 1
million. There are only three living National Artist for Literature today: Nick Joaquin,
Francisco Arcellana, (RIP), Levi Celerio and Carlos Quirino; Amado V. Hernandez got a
posthumous award.
A. POETRY
From the highly passionate and lyrical forms of poetry in the early 50’s, contemporary
poetry manifests a skillful manipulation of symbolic representations and is more
insightful and abstract.
Various literary organizations conduct live reading sessions in public places to make
poetry accessible to the masses. The UMPIL (Unyongng mga Manunulatsa Pilipinas) and
the LIRA (Linangansa Imahen, Retorikaat Anyo) hold such sessions at Ora Café, Kamias,
Quezon City (PDI Dec. 12, 1998). The Creative Writing Foundation and the Philippine
Literary Arts Council also conduct such sessions, even inviting guest poets and writers.
Poetry reading sessions are also being held in public libraries in Metro Manila, Cebu,
Naga and Tacloban.
The head of the NCCA (National Commission for Culture and the Arts) Committee on
Literature is Prof. Ricde Ungria.
B. ESSAYS
Filipino essays address societal issues, are more free and daring, manifesting a more
liberated atmosphere, however pointing out moral degradation, indicating injustice,
suggesting alternatives, and directing thought. Essays were given incentives by
newspaper daily in columns “Young Blood/High Blood” where entries were compiled in
book forms and prizes awarded to writers of outstanding pieces.
Popular topics were on personal (happy or tragic) experiences –abortion, separation,

alternative routes in life and new-found happiness. The Carlos Palanca Memoriral Awards
for Literature have started from 1998 a new category –the Kabataang Essay for high
school students both in Filipino and in English. In this connection, Conrado de Quiroz, in
45
his column “Deterioration” at the Philippine Daily Inquirer, deplores the apparent decline
in writing ability among the youth after standing judge over many high school essay
contests attributing this to the tremendous decline in reading.
“It’s not that few people are using English or Filipino; it is that few people are reading.
With few people reading, few people are writing, or writing well. In this country, he
added, everyone who has written a letter calls himself a writer…showing in what low
esteem the art or craft is held.” He attributes the culprits to TV and the computer. “The
enemy of education isn’t English or Filipino or bilingualism,”he continues, “but the TV.
Along with TV, computers are creating a visual culture antithetical to reading and
writing.”
C. SHORT STORIES
Obviously, the short story is still the more popular venue of writers up to this period. The
new breed of writers seem to excel in the skillful handling of techniques and in coming
out with original forms. Short romantic fiction in the vernacular has caught the fancy of
many readers who perhaps find these less time-consuming, as well as less expensive,
giving more time for remunerative work and earning a living.
In 1997, the Carlos PalancaMemorial Awards opened three new divisions in the short
story: Ilocano, Cebuano and Hiligaynon.
Short story first prize winners in the Carlos PalancaMemorial Awards in English in 1996
and 1997 were Carlos Ojeda Aureus(Martillo) for his “The Latecomer”and “The Amulet”
by David C. Martinez (Michaela Sanchez), respectively.
In the MaiklingKuwentocategory, we had “Pag-uugat, Pagpapakpak”by Levy Balgosde la

Cruz (Lea Victoria) and Nang Gabing Mamatayang Nana Soling by Alvin B. Yapan (Jose
Agustin) in 1996 and 1997.
D.PLAYS
Scriptwriting, a popular and developing literature form is probably due to the growing
interest in TV and the visual arts. The following can be attributed to this trend:
1. TV and stage patronage

2. Theater groups like Dramatis Personae, PETA (Philippine Educational Theater
Association), DulaangUP, CCPDramaticArts Division TeatroTelesine,
GantimpalaTheater Foundation, Mobile or Touring Children’s theater groups
3. Substantial awards in film-making
4. Expansion to cater to childrens’needs (TV’s Channel 5’s Batibot, and Tanghalang
Pambata)
5. The popularity of Taglishwhich pepper today’s yuppylingo and which reach out to
the masses
6. The notion of seeking popularity and ratings through exposure
7. Creative writing workshops
From its original Short Stories category, the Carlos PalancaMemorial Awards have
expanded its prizes to One-act Plays and Full-length plays both in English and in Filipino.
46
D. NOVELS
Many of our writers have turned to the more remunerative and shorter literary forms
than the longer novels which are indicative of more practical considerations. Out better
novel writers have settled in their twilight years, some to foreign lands or may have
perhaps lost the feel of the Filipino psyche.
Points for Discussion
1. What are the reasons why do we need to study Philippine?

2. What are the changes that occurred in the lives ofthe Filipinos during the
different periods?
3. How does the Filipino spirit reawaken after 300 years of passivity under Spanish
rule?
4. What are the common themes of most poems during the Spanish Occupation?
Set Task 1
Let’s map it out
Fill in with details the chart below by sequencing the periods during which
Philippine Literature has flourished. Please do so in a sheet of paper.
Periods Events Outcomes
Set Task 2
Clippings
Recall the authors that you know from the different periods in Philippine
literature and gather some cutouts, pictures and illustrations about them. Make some
clippings about them and outlined their famous works and contributions to Philippine
literature. Please compile them in a short-sized folder.
47
Assessment
How far have you gone? Please answer the following questions?
1. It deals with ideas, thoughts, and emotions of man. It is said to be the story of
man.
2. Written by Harriet Beecher Stowe of the US, it depicted the sad fate of slaves;
this became the basis of democracy later on.
3. This is a lyric poem of 14 lines dealing with an emotions, a feeling, or idea.
4. The writer of BIAG-Ni Lam-Ang
5. The first Filipino Alphabet
6. Give 2 objectives of Propaganda Movement to seek reforms and changes
7. The first spanish governor-general in the Philippines.
8. This is a sequel for the NOLI ME TANGERE
9. The title of President Manuel L. Quezon’s autobiography
10. Which song of Freddie Aguilar became an instant success because of the spirit
and emotions revealed in it?
Reflections
In your reflection journal, write the new insights you learned from Unit 1
1. . . . on the importance of literature

2. . . . on the different types of literature
3. . . . on the Filipino authors of the different periods of literature
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Unit 2 FICTION
A fiction is a deliberately fabricated account of something. It can also be a literary work

based on imagination rather than on fact, like a novel or short story.The Latin
word fictus means “to form,” which seems like a good source for the English
word fiction, since fiction is formed in the imagination. Like its literary
cousins fable, legend, and myth, however, fiction has a slightly darker additional
meaning: a deliberate lie or untruth. When we talk about "the line between fact and
fiction," we're talking about the difference between truth and lies.
A work of fiction is created in the imagination of its author. The author invents the story
and makes up the characters, the plot or storyline, the dialogue and sometimes even the
setting. A fictional work does not claim to tell a true story. Instead, it immerses us in
experiences that we may never have in real life, introduces us to types of people we
may never otherwise meet and takes us to places we may never visit in any other way.
Fiction can inspire us, intrigue us, scare us and engage us in new ideas. It can help us
see ourselves and our world in new and interesting ways.
Learning Outcomes
At the end of the unit, you must have:
1. identified and discussed the contributions of the famous fictionists in the

development of the modern short story;
2. analyzed the stories using any of the critical lenses;
3. discussed the relevance of the theme of each selection to real-life people
and situations; and
4. created comics version of selected short stories orwritten a character sketch
of selected fictional characters.
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2.1 Nature of Fiction

iction is not awarded this honor. Because fiction does not describe reality strictly
speaking, it seems to have less reason to exist. We would all be up a creek without a
paddle if we couldn’t look online for instructions how to change a tire, but we could live
without fiction. Fiction may make life more enjoyable, but no one would die if fiction
ceased to exist. It is extraneous, a luxury afforded to rational animals, not necessary for
survival per se. To justify, therefore, fiction’s existence, we tend to treat fiction the same
way we treat non-fiction. We search for clearly identifiable meanings in books, movies,
short stories, plays, music, etc. But we cannot be as flip about this as we are with non-
fiction, because if the words simply mean what they always mean in everyday speech,
we’re left with something meaningless. We’re left with just descriptions of characters
doing stuff, and because we are all always just doing stuff, we find this uninteresting
To justify, therefore, fiction’s existence, we tend to treat fiction the same way we treat
non-fiction. We search for clearly identifiable meanings in books, movies, short stories,
plays, music, etc. But we cannot be as flippant about this as we are with non-fiction,
because if the words simply mean what they always mean in everyday speech, we’re left
with something meaningless. We’re left with just descriptions of characters doing stuff,
and because we are all always just doing stuff, we find this uninteresting. So we look for
hidden meanings and subliminal messages beneath the overt meaning of the symbols on
the page, stage, or screen. So Atticus’s glasses aren’t just glasses, they’re a symbol for
his intelligence which sets him apart from the town of Maycomb. The One Ring isn’t just
a ring, it’s a symbol for the corruptive influence of power. Moby-Dick isn’t just an
aberration of nature, he’s a symbol of the unknowability and meaninglessness of human
existence, as Ron Swanson put it.
https://medium.com/@Upliterate/the-nature-and-origin-of-meaning-in-fiction-e235f7c628a0
2.2 Elements of Fiction

Fiction is writing that includes imaginary characters, events and/or settings created by
the writer. All of the components of a fictitious story do not necessarily need to be
fictitious though: • Imaginary characters might be set in a real world setting such as a
well known city or a particular country. • Characters might be fictitious, but set in a
“real” event. For example, you might write about the experiences of a fictitious character
during World War II. • Real characters may be used for a fictitious story that embraces
an imaginary event or setting (eg. a story about William Shakespeare travelling through
time; 00or something more realistic, like a summer’s holiday at a fictitious beach resort,
taken by a famous historical figure such as Mozart). Two Types of Fiction There are
traditionally two types of fiction: a) CATEGORY Also referred to as ‘genre’, these stories
have a distinct theme and as such are easy to categorise. Examples of category or genre
fiction are science fiction, westerns, adventure, crime, historical, romance, horror,
erotica, mystery, suspense, fantasy and war stories. When selecting a genre or category
of fiction to focus on, it is best to choose one that suits your interests, knowledge and
experience. Otherwise, be prepared to do a lot of research so you can credibly write
about your chosen subjects. For example, if you have an enthusiastic interest in
medieval English times and you have read extensively about feudal society, the king’s
court, knights, the crusades, peasants etc, you would be in a strong position to write a
historical novel set in that period. But you probably should avoid starting with an
adolescent girls’ novels about a pony club if you dislike children and know nothing about
horses. b) MAINSTREAM These stories are aimed at the widest possible audience. They
typically deal with most aspects of modern life including relationships, careers, and the
50
search for success and fulfilment. Popular mainstream writers include Jeffrey Archer,
Jackie Collins, Colleen McCullough and James Michener. Characteristics of Category
Fiction There are five characteristics which are usually common to category fiction
stories: 1. A strong plot Frequently the age-old standard plot is used, where a hero is
confronted with a very serious problem; he pursues a solution but faces more and more
problems; then finally, faced with a desperate situation, the solution emerges to result in
a happy ending. The underpinning driver of plot is conflict. Conflict is situation or person
that undermines the perfect ideal of how things “should” be. This could mean a literal
conflict between two characters, or some other form of cataclysm that interrupts the
harmony of your protagonist’s existence. Conflict is an essential ingredient to good
storytelling. It provides the momentum for the plot, the reason for your characters to
exist and interact, and it sets up the eventual denouement or resolution to your story. In
fact, without conflict, you don’t have a story. For example, if you went on a holiday to a
tropical destination, the weather was beautiful, you sunbathed on the beach, read
books, slept, relaxed and had an essentially perfect holiday, it would be a very boring
story to tell your friends when you got home. But it would be a completely gripping yarn
if everything went wrong. Imagine they lost your bags at the airport and you arrived at
your hotel with nothing but the clothes on your back, only to discover it was on fire and
all the guests had been evacuated. You could not find a room anywhere so you then
spent the week camped under a palm tree in driving rain with only a garbage bag for
shelter. During a particularly gusty wind you were knocked unconscious by a falling
coconut and spent the rest of the trip looking like an extra from The Mummy Returns
after the hospital over-bandaged your head to protect your 17 stitches. The sun finally
came out on the last day you were there so you rushed out to the beach to make the
most of it and got third degree sunburn, necessitating taking your flight home wearing
nothing but a sarong and lashings of aloe vera lotion. You finally arrived in your home
city, reeking of unwashed body and with small animals living in your matted hair, only to
find your bags waiting on the conveyor belt as though they’d never left. The labels on
your luggage indicated that it had arrived via Denmark, the Ukraine and Dubai. All had
been opened and searched, your underwear was missing and someone had replaced
your hairdryer with a handgun and a pair of pliers. You could eat out on a story like that
for years. If you watch a typical situation comedy on television (eg the Simpsons) you
will see a classic conflict-driven story-telling structure. The program begins with the
status quo, a problem arises, more problems ensue, then the problem is ultimately
overcome and the status quo is reinstated by the end of the show. 2. A hero or heroine
The hero is the main character of the story, also known as the protagonist. He/she
usually has strong personal qualities and engages the sympathies of the reader. It is
important that your readership is able to identify with or admire your hero in some way.
If the audience doesn’t like or engage with your hero, they will quickly lose motivation to
read the rest of your story. In some cases you may choose to create a protagonist who
is an anti-hero – that is, someone who does not fit the traditional heroic mould but who
has other redeeming qualities. For example, Bruce Willis’ character in the movie
Armageddon is a rough, antisocial oil-rig owner with a violent streak, bad manners and
poor parenting style. But he is a loyal friend, loves his daughter fiercely and ultimately
sacrifices his own life to protect her future (and to save the world). An anti-hero should
be used only if his/her character is shown as being strong and true to their own set of
values (which may differ to the values of the reader). 3. Obvious motivation The purpose
to which the hero or heroine aspires must be clear and easily grasped by the reader,
whether it be to achieve love, fame, fortune, conquer evil, survive a series of trials or
something else equally positive and easy to grasp. If the hero’s motivation is unclear,
your story will appear to lack direction and the reader will become frustrated. The
experience for the reader would be rather like watching an unfamiliar sport and not
51
knowing the rules – the players would appear to be running around with no purpose and
achieving nothing. If your hero has no clearly defined goal, his/her actions will appear
pointless, rendering your story pointless, and the reader will lose interest. 4. Plenty of
action To keep your audience interested, your story should include plenty of action. Look
to develop situations which will lead to problems which must then be solved, and
perhaps while solving a problem, further problems will develop. The story should include
frequent confrontations between characters and their environment. You may also
introduce changes in scenery (the characters move from place to place), to generate
interest and opportunities for further problems. For example, your characters may be on
a quest to find treasure and face many life-threatening dangers on the way. If you
choose to set your entire story in a single location (eg a single room, a cave, a prison
cell) you will need to work harder to create interest and opportunities for conflict and it
is likely that your protagonist will have a more passive role in the story. In the case of a
prison cell, the central action will derive from characters (guards, visitors, other
prisoners) or other entities (weapons, digging tools, drugs, rats, food) coming and going
from the space, rather than from your protagonist’s actions. 5. A colourful background or
setting Exotic or out-of-the-ordinary locations are frequently used to enhance the
category story. Depending on the category and plot, the story might take place on
another planet, a cavern beneath the earth, another period in time, or even amongst
people leading a lifestyle in our society which is quite different to the norm (eg. people
in high society, people living in a commune). If you are going to set your story in an out-
of-the-ordinary location, make sure you have considerable knowledge about that type of
location, or your descriptions will lack credibility. Characteristics of Mainstream Fiction A
typical popular modern novel has the following characteristics: 1. A strong plot with a
traditional beginning, middle and end. It has believable motivation and conflict. 2. Plenty
of action, and some intrigue. 3. A hero or heroine with whom the reader can identify. 4.
Romantic interest. 5. A happy ending. Of course, there are countless variations, but
these are the main elements that you will find in mainstream fiction. BOOK, PLAY or
SHORT STORY? Your approach to writing fiction will vary according to how long the
work is and the medium you are writing for. A work of fiction can be long or short, and
written for print or electronic publishing. Children’s books may be relatively short, but
even a short novel might be 30,000 words. A novel of 200 to 250 pages would have
perhaps 75,000 words. Some novels are longer. Short stories published in magazines
may be perhaps 1500 to several thousand words in length. Fiction may also be written in
other forms: as poetry, a film, play or radio script, or even a song lyric. CATEGORY
STORIES Fantasy The dictionary defines fantasy as “fancy, mental image; caprice;
hallucination”. Fantasy always includes events that are unlikely, if not impossible, in real
life. It usually contains unrealistic settings, characters and events. Fantasy is a broad
term that can encompass a range of different categories including fairy tales, myths,
fables, science fiction, and others. Fairy Tales Fairy tales are fictitious stories that involve
romance and legendary deeds, where the characters include fictitious creatures such as
fairies, witches, wizards, dragons, gnomes and elves. They are usually, but not always
exclusively, written for children. Fables Fables are stories which teach a moral (i.e. a
principle or rule to live by). They often include animals or inanimate objects that are
personified. Aesop’s tales (eg The Tortoise and the Hare) are classic examples of fables.
Myths Myths are stories designed to explain a belief, natural event or phenomenon. The
word “myth” has evolved in modern times and has come to be associated with things
that are not true but it originally derives from the Greek word mythos, which simply
means narrative or story. Myths concern extra-ordinary characters (usually heroes or
gods) and are usually attempts to explain or interpret natural events in a supernatural
way. All cultures and religions have their own mythology, including the Aboriginal
“Dreamtime” used to explain creation, the Christian stories of creation and Noah’s ark,
52
and the extensive Greek mythology relating to its various deities and their activities.
Legends Legends are stories passed down through generations of people, which
originated so long ago that their truth cannot be verified. They may be partially or fully
fictitious, but there is no way to be sure. The main character may often be real (i.e.
he/she/it actually existed), and the setting may very well have been real but the tales
may have been embellished in the retelling. They sometimes involve elements of the
supernatural. Science Fiction Science fiction is fantasy that incorporates science or
technology into the story. Often the setting is in the future, in space or on another
planet; but this does not necessarily need to be the case. Science fiction can be set in
the real world, but simply incorporate some “imaginary” elements of science or
technology. It can even be set in the past. Westerns Westerns are stories where the
setting is in the frontier American west; usually stories about cowboys or cowboys and
Indians. Drama A drama is a story that stirs the emotions. It makes people feel tense at
times, and more relaxed at other times; sad on occasions, and happy on other
occasions. It is usually an emotional roller coaster. Romance Romance stories also stir
the emotions, but are normally gentler than dramas. They may create the emotional
highs and lows of a period, but the overall feeling of the story should be a warm,
perhaps calming and satisfying one. Comedy Comedies are designed to make people
laugh or at least smile. They can range from slapstick comedy, where the drive is
physical conflict (eg a man’s head comes into conflict with a bucket full of paint), right
through the black comedy, where subjects that are usually treated in a serious way (eg
death) become the source of humour. Horror Horror stories prey upon universal human
fears, such as fear of death, mutilation, monsters etc to give readers the thrill of fear
and of exploring the taboo. Originally borne out of primitive fears of the devil and
supernatural evil forces, horror stories often revolve around evil entities intruding into
everyday life. They are designed to alarm and terrify while simultaneously exciting
readers in much the same way as a ride at an amusement park might elicit screams of
both terror and excitement. Generally, horror stories end with some kind of catharsis in
which a level of normalcy is restored. This could be equated to the experience of a rider
safely exiting a rollercoaster at the end of the ride. In this way, horror stories
simultaneously unsettle and reassure the reader. Crime Crime fiction is a genre that
covers a broad range of writing, from whodunits through to legal dramas. A branch of
crime writing which is growing in popularity is one in which the writers explore the
graphic and unsettling elements of violent crime (including lurid descriptions of the
corpse, method of dispatch and autopsy scenes). The genre could be considered the
horror genre of the contemporary era in the sense that it plays upon modern fears and
insecurities (eg of being raped or murdered in an increasingly violent society). As with
horror stories, the denouement generally involves a catharsis of some kind, eg the killer
is caught, but this is not necessarily the case. In Bret Ellis’ novel American Psycho, the
killer is never brought to justice, further fuelling the reader’s niggling sense of being
unsafe in a dangerous world. Suspense A suspense story aims to keep the reader
guessing. It must contain uncertainty or anxiety. The reader will be told just enough to
secure their attention, but information will be held back in order to build tension. It will
finally be revealed at points in the story which are beyond where the reader desperately
wants to know that information. In effect, the writer is creating a desire, and suspending
delivery of information to satisfy that desire. Erotica Erotica is literature that deals with
sexual love. Theoretically, it differs from pornography in the sense that it aspires to an
artistic aesthetic rather than simply aiming to stimulate sexual desire for commercial
purposes.
53
SET TASK
Find a short fiction story in a newspaper or magazine. Read and analyse this story,
answering the following questions. (Cut out, or copy the story, so you can submit it
when you send this lesson’s assignment.) 1. How was the theme developed? (Analogy,
Chronological, Deductive, etc.) 2. How would you categorise this work? (Fantasy,
Suspense, Comedy, Drama, etc) 3. Recognising that there are certain characteristics
common to a fiction story, identify each of the following, if it exists, within this story: -A
strong plot -A protagonist -An obvious motivation -Action -A colourful background -An
antagonist
https://www.acseduonline.com/samples/Writing_Fiction_BWR105/lesson.pdf
2.3 Selected Stories for Analysis
Footnote To Youth by Jose Garcia Villa

The sun was salmon and hazy in the west. Dodong
thought to himself he would tell his father about Teang
when he got home, after he had unhitched the carabao
from the plow, and let it to its shed and fed it. He was
hesitant about saying it, but he wanted his father to
know. What he had to say was of serious import as it
would mark a climacteric in his life. Dodong finally
decided to tell it, at a thought came to him his father
might refuse to consider it. His father was silent hard-
working farmer who chewed areca nut, which he had
learned to do from his mother, Dodong's grandmother. I
will tell it to him. I will tell it to him. The ground was
broken up into many fresh wounds and fragrant with a
sweetish earthy smell. Many slender soft worms
emerged from the furrows and then burrowed again deeper into the soil. A short
colorless worm marched blindly to Dodong's foot and crawled calmly over it. Dodong go
tickled and jerked his foot, flinging the worm into the air. Dodong did not bother to look
where it fell, but thought of his age, seventeen, and he said to himself he was not young
any more. Dodong unhitched the carabao leisurely and gave it a healthy tap on the hip.
The beast turned its head to look at him with dumb faithful eyes. Dodong gave it a slight
push and the animal walked alongside him to its shed. He placed bundles of grass before
it land the carabao began to eat. Dodong looked at it without interests. Dodong started
homeward, thinking how he would break his news to his father. He wanted to marry,
Dodong did. He was seventeen, he had pimples on his face, the down on his upper lip
already was dark-these meant he was no longer a boy. He was growing into a man--he
was a man. Dodong felt insolent and big at the thought of it although he was by nature
low in statue. Thinking himself a man grown Dodong felt he could do anything. He
walked faster, prodded by the thought of his virility. A small angled stone bled his foot,
54
but he dismissed it cursorily. He lifted his leg and looked at the hurt toe and then went
on walking. In the cool sundown he thought wild you dreams of himself and Teang.
Teang, his girl. She had a small brown face and small black eyes and straightglossy hair.
How desirable she was to him. She made him dream even during the day. Dodong
tensed with desire and looked at the muscles of his arms. Dirty. This field work was
healthy, invigorating but it begrimed you, smudged you terribly. He turned back the way
he had come, then marched obliquely to a creek. Dodong stripped himself and laid his
clothes, a gray undershirt and red kundiman shorts, on the grass. The he went into the
water, wet his body over, and rubbed at it vigorously. He was not long in bathing, then
he marched homeward again. The bath made him feel cool. It was dusk when he
reached home. The petroleum lamp on the ceiling already was lighted and the low
unvarnished square table was set for supper. His parents and he sat down on the floor
around the table to eat. They had fried fresh-water fish, rice, bananas, and caked sugar.
Dodong ate fish and rice, but didnot partake of the fruit. The bananas were overripe and
when one held them they felt more fluid than solid. Dodong broke off a piece of the
cakes sugar, dipped it in his glass of water and ate it. He got another piece and wanted
some more, but he thought of leaving the remainder for his parents. Dodong's mother
removed the dishes when they were through and went out to the batalan to wash them.
She walked with slow careful steps and
Dodong wanted to help her carry the dishes
out, but he was tired and now felt lazy. He
wished as he looked at her that he had a
sister who could help his mother in the
housework. He pitied her, doing all the
housework alone. His father remained in the
room, sucking a diseased tooth. It was
paining him again, Dodong knew. Dodong
had told him often and again to let the town
dentist pull it out, but he was afraid, his
father was. He did not tell that to Dodong, but Dodong guessed it. Afterward Dodong
himself thought that if he had a decayed tooth he would be afraid to go to the dentist;
he would not be any bolder than his father. Dodong said while his mother was out that
he was going to marry Teang. There it was out, what he had to say, and over which he
had done so much thinking. He had said it without any effort at all and without self-
consciousness. Dodong felt relieved and looked at his father expectantly. A decrescent
moon outside shed its feeble light into the window, graying the still black temples of his
father. His father looked old now. "I am going to marry Teang," Dodong said.His father
looked at him silently and stopped sucking the broken tooth. The silence became intense
and cruel, and Dodong wished his father would suck that troublous tooth again. Dodong
was uncomfortable and then became angry because his father kept looking at him
without uttering anything.
"I will marry Teang," Dodong repeated. "I will marry Teang." His father kept gazing at
him in inflexible silence and Dodong fidgeted on his seat. "I asked her last night to marry
me and she said...yes. I want your permission. I... want... it...." There was impatient
clamor in his voice, an exacting protest at this coldness, this indifference. Dodong looked
at his father sourly. He cracked his knuckles one by one, and the little sounds it made
broke dully the night stillness. "Must you marry, Dodong?" Dodong resented his father's
questions; his father himself had married. Dodong made a quick impassioned easy in his
55
mind about selfishness, but later he got confused. "You are very young, Dodong." "I'm...
seventeen." "That's very young to get married at." "I... I want to marry...Teang's good
girl." "Tell your mother," his father said. "You tell her, tatay." "Dodong, you tell your
inay." "You tell her." "All right, Dodong." "You will let me marry Teang?"
"Son, if that is your wish... of course..." There was a strange helpless light in his father's
eyes. Dodong did not read it, too absorbed was he in himself. Dodong was immensely
glad he had asserted himself. He lost his resentment for his father. For a while he even
felt sorry for him about the diseased tooth. Then he confined his mind to dreaming of
Teang and himself. Sweet young dream.... Dodong stood in the sweltering noon heat,
sweating profusely, so that his camiseta was damp. He was still like a tree and his
thoughts were confused. His mother had told him not to leave the house, but he had
left. He had wanted to get out of it without clear reason at all. He was afraid, he felt.
Afraid of the house. It had seemed to cage him, to compares his thoughts with severe
tyranny. Afraid also of Teang. Teang was giving birth in the house; she gave screams
that chilled his blood. He did not want her to scream like that, he seemed to be rebuking
him. He began to wonder madly if the process of childbirth was really painful. Some
women, when they gave birth, did not cry. In a few moments he would be a father.
"Father, father," he whispered the word with awe, with strangeness. He was young, he
realized now, contradicting himself of nine months comfortable... "Your son," people
would soon be telling him. "Your son, Dodong." Dodong felt tired standing. He sat down
on a saw horse with his feet close together. He looked at his callused toes. Suppose he
had ten children... What made him think that? What was the matter with him? God! He
heard his mother's voice from the house: "Come up, Dodong. It is over." Of a sudden he
felt terribly embarrassed as he looked at her. Somehow he was ashamed to his mother
of his youthful paternity. It made him feel guilty, as if he had taken something no
properly his. He dropped his eyes and pretended to dust dirt off his kundiman shorts.
"Dodong," his mother called again. "Dodong." He turned to look again and this time saw
his father beside his mother. "It is a boy," his father said. He beckoned Dodong to come
up.
Dodong felt more embarrassed and did not move. What a moment for him. His parents'
eyes seemed to pierce him through and he felt limp. He wanted to hide from them, to
run away. "Dodong, you come up. You come up," he mother said. Dodong did not want
to come up and stayed in the sun. "Dodong. Dodong." "I'll... come up." Dodong traced
tremulous steps on the dry parched yard. He ascended the bamboo steps slowly. His
heart pounded mercilessly in him. Within, he avoided his parents eyes. He walked ahead
of them so that they should not see his face. He felt guilty and untrue. He felt like
crying. His eyes smarted and his chest wanted to burst. He wanted to turn back, to go
back to the yard. He wanted somebody to punish him. His father thrust his hand in his
and gripped it gently. "Son," his father said. And his mother: "Dodong..." How kind were
their voices. They flowed into him, making him strong. "Teang?" Dodong said. "She's
sleeping. But you go in..." His father led him into the small sawali room. Dodong saw
Teang, his girl wife, asleep on the papag with her black hair soft around her face. He did
not want her to look that pale... Dodong wanted to touch her, to push away that stray
wisp of hair that touched her lips, but again that feeling of embarrassment came over
him and before his parents he did not want to be demonstrative. The hilot was wrapping
the child, Dodong heart it cry. The thin voice pierced him queerly. He could not control
56
the swelling of happiness in him. You give him to me. You give him to me," Dodong said.
Blas was not Dodong's child. Many more children came. For six successive years a new
child came along. Dodong did not want any more children, but they came. It seemed the
coming of children could not be helped. Dodong got angry with himself sometimes.
Teang did not complain, but the bearing of children told on her. She was shapeless and
thin now, even if she was young. There was interminable work to be done. Cooking.
Laundering. The house. The children. She cried sometimes, wishing she had not
married. She did not tell Dodong this, not wishing him to dislike her. Yet she wished she
had not married. Not even Dodong, whom she loved. There has been another suitor,
Lucio, older than Dodong by nine years, and that was why she had chosen Dodong.
Young Dodong. Seventeen. Lucio had married another after her marriage to Dodong, but
he was childless until now. She wondered if she had married Lucio, would she have
borne him children. Maybe not either. That was a better lot. But she loved Dodong...
Dodong whom life had made ugly. One night, as he lay beside his wife, he roe and went
out of the house. He stood in the moonlight, tired and querulous. He wanted to ask
questions and somebody to answer him. He w anted to be wise about many things. One
of them was why life did not fulfill all of Youth's dreams. Why it must be so.
Why one was forsaken... after Love. Dodong would not find the answer. Maybe the
question was not to be answered. It must be so to make Youth. Youth. Youth must be
dreamfully sweet. Dreamfully sweet. Dodong returned to the house humiliated by
himself. He had wanted to know a little wisdom but was denied it. When Blas was
eighteen he came home one night very flustered and happy. It was late at night and
Teang and the other children were asleep. Dodong heard Blas's steps, for he could not
sleep well of nights. He watched Blas undress in the dark and lie down softly. Blas was
restless on his mat and could not sleep. Dodong called him name and asked why he did
not sleep. Blas said he could not sleep. "You better go to sleep. It is late," Dodong said.
Blas raised himself on his elbow and muttered something in a low fluttering voice.
Dodong did not answer and tried to sleep. "Itay ...," Blas called softly. Dodong stirred
and asked him what was it. "I am going to marry Tena.
She accepted me tonight." Dodong lay on the red pillow without moving. "Itay, you think
it over." Dodong lay silent. "I love Tena and... I want her." Dodong rose f rom his mat
and told Blas to follow him. They descended to the yard, where everything was still and
quiet. The moonlight was cold and white. "You want to marry Tena," Dodong said. He
did not want Blas to marry yet. Blas was very young. The life that would follow marriage
would be heard... "Yes." "Must you marry?" Blas's voice stilled with resentment. "I will
marry Tena." Dodong kept silent, hurt. "You have objections, Itay?" Blas asked acridly.
"Son... n-none..." (But truly, God, I don't want Blas to marry yet... not yet. I don't want
Blas to marry yet....) But he was helpless. He could not do anything. Youth must
triumph... now. Love must triumph... now. Afterwards... it will be life. As long ago Youth
and Love did triumph for Dodong... and then Life. Dodong looked wistfully at his young
son in the moonlight. He felt extremely sad and sorry for him.
57
DEAD STARS by Paz Marquez Benitez
THROUGH the open window the air-steeped

outdoors passed into his room, quietly enveloping
him, stealing into his very thought. Esperanza,
Julia, the sorry mess he had made of life, the
years to come even now beginning to weigh
down, to crush–they lost concreteness, diffused
into formless melancholy. The tranquil murmur of
conversation issued from the brick-tiled azotea
where Don Julian and Carmen were busy puttering
away among the rose pots.
“Papa, and when will the ‘long table’ be set?”
“I don’t know yet. Alfredo is not very specific, but

I understand Esperanza wants it to be next
month.”
Carmen sighed impatiently. “Why is he not a bit more decided, I wonder. He is over
thirty, is he not? And still a bachelor! Esperanza must be tired waiting.”
“She does not seem to be in much of a hurry either,” Don Julian nasally commented,
while his rose scissors busily snipped away.
“How can a woman be in a hurry when the man does not hurry her?” Carmen returned,
pinching off a worm with a careful, somewhat absent air. “Papa, do you remember how
much in love he was?”
“In love? With whom?”
“With Esperanza, of course. He has not had another love affair that I know of,” she said
with good-natured contempt. “What I mean is that at the beginning he was
enthusiastic–flowers, serenades, notes, and things like that–”
Alfredo remembered that period with a wonder not unmixed with shame. That was less
than four years ago. He could not understand those months of a great hunger that was
not of the body nor yet of the mind, a craving that had seized on him one quiet night
when the moon was abroad and under the dappled shadow of the trees in the plaza,
man wooed maid. Was he being cheated by life? Love–he seemed to have missed it. Or
was the love that others told about a mere fabrication of perfervid imagination, an
exaggeration of the commonplace, a glorification of insipid monotonies such as made up
his love life? Was love a combination of circumstances, or sheer native capacity of soul?
In those days love was, for him, still the eternal puzzle; for love, as he knew it, was a
stranger to love as he divined it might be.
Sitting quietly in his room now, he could almost revive the restlessness of those days,
the feeling of tumultuous haste, such as he knew so well in his boyhood when
something beautiful was going on somewhere and he was trying to get there in time to
see. “Hurry, hurry, or you will miss it,” someone had seemed to urge in his ears. So he
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had avidly seized on the shadow of Love and deluded himself for a long while in the way
of humanity from time immemorial. In the meantime, he became very much engaged to
Esperanza.
Why would men so mismanage their lives? Greed, he thought, was what ruined so
many. Greed–the desire to crowd into a moment all the enjoyment it will hold, to
squeeze from the hour all the emotion it will yield. Men commit themselves when but
half-meaning to do so, sacrificing possible future fullness of ecstasy to the craving for
immediate excitement. Greed–mortgaging the future–forcing the hand of Time, or of
Fate.
“What do you think happened?” asked Carmen, pursuing her thought.
“I supposed long-engaged people are like that; warm now, cool tomorrow. I think they
are oftener cool than warm. The very fact that an engagement has been allowed to
prolong itself argues a certain placidity of temperament–or of affection–on the part of
either, or both.” Don Julian loved to philosophize. He was talking now with an evident
relish in words, his resonant, very nasal voice toned down to monologue pitch. “That
phase you were speaking of is natural enough for a beginning. Besides, that, as I see it,
was Alfredo’s last race with escaping youth–”
Carmen laughed aloud at the thought of her brother’s perfect physical repose–almost
indolence–disturbed in the role suggested by her father’s figurative language.
“A last spurt of hot blood,” finished the old man.
Few certainly would credit Alfredo

Salazar with hot blood. Even his
friends had amusedly diagnosed his blood
as cool and thin, citing
incontrovertible evidence. Tall and
slender, he moved with an indolent
ease that verged on grace. Under straight
recalcitrant hair, a thin face with a
satisfying breadth of forehead, slow,
dreamer’s eyes, and astonishing
freshness of lips– indeed Alfredo
Salazar’s appearance betokened little of
exuberant masculinity; rather a poet with wayward humor, a fastidious artist with keen,
clear brain.
He rose and quietly went out of the house. He lingered a moment on the stone steps;
then went down the path shaded by immature acacias, through the little tarred gate
which he left swinging back and forth, now opening, now closing, on the gravel road
bordered along the farther side by madre cacao hedge in tardy lavender bloom.
The gravel road narrowed as it slanted up to the house on the hill, whose wide, open
porches he could glimpse through the heat-shrivelled tamarinds in the Martinez yard.
Six weeks ago that house meant nothing to him save that it was the Martinez house,
rented and occupied by Judge del Valle and his family. Six weeks ago Julia Salas meant
nothing to him; he did not even know her name; but now–
59
One evening he had gone “neighboring” with Don Julian; a rare enough occurrence,
since he made it a point to avoid all appearance of currying favor with the Judge. This
particular evening however, he had allowed himself to be persuaded. “A little mental
relaxation now and then is beneficial,” the old man had said. “Besides, a judge’s good
will, you know;” the rest of the thought–“is worth a rising young lawyer’s trouble”–Don
Julian conveyed through a shrug and a smile that derided his own worldly wisdom.
A young woman had met them at the door. It was evident from the excitement of the
Judge’s children that she was a recent and very welcome arrival. In the characteristic
Filipino way formal introductions had been omitted–the judge limiting himself to a casual
“Ah, ya se conocen?”–with the consequence that Alfredo called her Miss del Valle
throughout the evening.
He was puzzled that she should smile with evident delight every time he addressed her
thus. Later Don Julian informed him that she was not the Judge’s sister, as he had
supposed, but his sister-in-law, and that her name was Julia Salas. A very dignified
rather austere name, he thought. Still, the young lady should have corrected him. As it
was, he was greatly embarrassed, and felt that he should explain.
To his apology, she replied, “That is nothing, Each time I was about to correct you, but I
remembered a similar experience I had once before.”
“Oh,” he drawled out, vastly relieved.
“A man named Manalang–I kept calling him Manalo. After the tenth time or so, the
young man rose from his seat and said suddenly, ‘Pardon me, but my name is Manalang,
Manalang.’ You know, I never forgave him!”
He laughed with her.
“The best thing to do under the circumstances, I have found out,” she pursued, “is to
pretend not to hear, and to let the other person find out his mistake without help.”
“As you did this time. Still, you looked amused every time I–”
“I was thinking of Mr. Manalang.”
Don Julian and his uncommunicative friend, the Judge, were absorbed in a game of
chess. The young man had tired of playing appreciative spectator and desultory
conversationalist, so he and Julia Salas had gone off to chat in the vine-covered porch.
The lone piano in the neighborhood alternately tinkled and banged away as the player’s
moods altered. He listened, and wondered irrelevantly if Miss Salas could sing; she had
such a charming speaking voice.
He was mildly surprised to note from her appearance that she was unmistakably a sister
of the Judge’s wife, although Doña Adela was of a different type altogether. She was
small and plump, with wide brown eyes, clearly defined eyebrows, and delicately
modeled hips–a pretty woman with the complexion of a baby and the expression of a
likable cow. Julia was taller, not so obviously pretty. She had the same eyebrows and
lips, but she was much darker, of a smooth rich brown with underlying tones of crimson
which heightened the impression she gave of abounding vitality.
On Sunday mornings after mass, father and son would go crunching up the gravel road
to the house on the hill. The Judge’s wife invariably offered them beer, which Don Julian
60
enjoyed and Alfredo did not. After a half hour or so, the chessboard would be brought
out; then Alfredo and Julia Salas would go out to the porch to chat. She sat in the low
hammock and he in a rocking chair and the hours–warm, quiet March hours–sped by. He
enjoyed talking with her and it was evident that she liked his company; yet what feeling
there was between them was so undisturbed that it seemed a matter of course. Only
when Esperanza chanced to ask him indirectly about those visits did some uneasiness
creep into his thoughts of the girl next door.
Esperanza had wanted to know if he went straight home after mass. Alfredo suddenly
realized that for several Sundays now he had not waited for Esperanza to come out of
the church as he had been wont to do. He had been eager to go “neighboring.”
He answered that he went home to work. And, because he was not habitually untruthful,
added, “Sometimes I go with Papa to Judge del Valle’s.”
She dropped the topic. Esperanza was not prone to indulge in unprovoked jealousies.
She was a believer in the regenerative virtue of institutions, in their power to regulate
feeling as well as conduct. If a man were married, why, of course, he loved his wife; if
he were engaged, he could not possibly love another woman.
That half-lie told him what he had not admitted openly to himself, that he was giving
Julia Salas something which he was not free to give. He realized that; yet something that
would not be denied beckoned imperiously, and he followed on.
It was so easy to forget up there, away from the prying eyes of the world, so easy and
so poignantly sweet. The beloved woman, he standing close to her, the shadows
around, enfolding.
“Up here I find–something–”
He and Julia Salas stood looking out into the she quiet night. Sensing unwanted
intensity, laughed, woman-like, asking, “Amusement?”
“No; youth–its spirit–”
“Are you so old?”
“And heart’s desire.”
Was he becoming a poet, or is there a poet lurking in the heart of every man?
“Down there,” he had continued, his voice somewhat indistinct, “the road is too broad,
too trodden by feet, too barren of mystery.”
“Down there” beyond the ancient tamarinds lay the road, upturned to the stars. In the
darkness the fireflies glimmered, while an errant breeze strayed in from somewhere,
bringing elusive, faraway sounds as of voices in a dream.
“Mystery–” she answered lightly, “that is so brief–”
“Not in some,” quickly. “Not in you.”
“You have known me a few weeks; so the mystery.”
“I could study you all my life and still not find it.”
61
“So long?”
“I should like to.”
Those six weeks were now so swift–seeming in the memory, yet had they been so deep
in the living, so charged with compelling power and sweetness. Because neither the past
nor the future had relevance or meaning, he lived only the present, day by day, lived it
intensely, with such a willful shutting out of fact as astounded him in his calmer
moments.
Just before Holy Week, Don Julian invited the judge and his family to spend Sunday
afternoon at Tanda where he had a coconut plantation and a house on the beach.
Carmen also came with her four energetic children. She and Doña Adela spent most of
the time indoors directing the preparation of the merienda and discussing the likeable
absurdities of their husbands–how Carmen’s Vicente was so absorbed in his farms that
he would not even take time off to accompany her on this visit to her father; how Doña
Adela’s Dionisio was the most absentminded of men, sometimes going out without his
collar, or with unmatched socks.
After the merienda, Don Julian sauntered off with the judge to show him what a thriving
young coconut looked like–“plenty of leaves, close set, rich green”–while the children,
convoyed by Julia Salas, found unending entertainment in the rippling sand left by the
ebbing tide. They were far down, walking at the edge of the water, indistinctly outlined
against the gray of the out-curving beach.
Alfredo left his perch on the bamboo ladder of the house and followed. Here were her
footsteps, narrow, arched. He laughed at himself for his black canvas footwear which he
removed forthwith and tossed high up on dry sand.
When he came up, she flushed, then smiled with frank pleasure.
“I hope you are enjoying this,” he said with a questioning inflection.
“Very much. It looks like home to me, except that we do not have such a lovely beach.”
There was a breeze from the water. It blew the hair away from her forehead, and
whipped the tucked-up skirt around her straight, slender figure. In the picture was
something of eager freedom as of wings poised in flight. The girl had grace, distinction.
Her face was not notably pretty; yet she had a tantalizing charm, all the more
compelling because it was an inner quality, an achievement of the spirit. The lure was
there, of naturalness, of an alert vitality of mind and body, of a thoughtful, sunny
temper, and of a piquant perverseness which is sauce to charm.
“The afternoon has seemed very short, hasn’t it?” Then, “This, I think, is the last time–
we can visit.”
“The last? Why?”
“Oh, you will be too busy perhaps.”
He noted an evasive quality in the answer.
“Do I seem especially industrious to you?”
“If you are, you never look it.”
62
“Not perspiring or breathless, as a busy man ought to be.”
“But–”
“Always unhurried, too unhurried, and calm.” She smiled to herself.
“I wish that were true,” he said after a meditative pause.
She waited.
“A man is happier if he is, as you say, calm and placid.”
“Like a carabao in a mud pool,” she retorted perversely
“Who? I?”
“Oh, no!”
“You said I am calm and placid.”
“That is what I think.”
“I used to think so too. Shows how little we know ourselves.”
It was strange to him that he could be wooing thus: with tone and look and covert
phrase.
“I should like to see your home town.”
“There is nothing to see–little crooked streets, bunut roofs with ferns growing on them,
and sometimes squashes.”
That was the background. It made her seem less detached, less unrelated, yet withal
more distant, as if that background claimed her and excluded him.
“Nothing? There is you.”
“Oh, me? But I am here.”
“I will not go, of course, until you are there.”
“Will you come? You will find it dull. There isn’t even one American there!”
“Well–Americans are rather essential to my entertainment.”
She laughed.
“We live on Calle Luz, a little street with trees.”
“Could I find that?”
“If you don’t ask for Miss del Valle,” she smiled teasingly.
“I’ll inquire about–”
“What?”
“The house of the prettiest girl in the town.”
“There is where you will lose your way.” Then she turned serious. “Now, that is not quite
sincere.”
63
“It is,” he averred slowly, but emphatically.
“I thought you, at least, would not say such things.”
“Pretty–pretty–a foolish word! But there is none other more handy I did not mean that
quite–”
“Are you withdrawing the compliment?”
“Re-enforcing it, maybe. Something is pretty when it pleases the eye–it is more than
that when–”
“If it saddens?” she interrupted hastily.
“Exactly.”
“It must be ugly.”
“Always?”
Toward the west, the sunlight lay on the dimming waters in a broad, glinting streamer of
crimsoned gold.
“No, of course you are right.”
“Why did you say this is the last time?” he asked quietly as they turned back.
“I am going home.”
The end of an impossible dream!
“When?” after a long silence.
“Tomorrow. I received a letter from Father and Mother yesterday. They want me to
spend Holy Week at home.”
She seemed to be waiting for him to speak. “That is why I said this is the last time.”
“Can’t I come to say good-bye?”
“Oh, you don’t need to!”
“No, but I want to.”
“There is no time.”
The golden streamer was withdrawing, shortening, until it looked no more than a pool
far away at the rim of the world. Stillness, a vibrant quiet that affects the senses as does
solemn harmony; a peace that is not contentment but a cessation of tumult when all
violence of feeling tones down to the wistful serenity of regret. She turned and looked
into his face, in her dark eyes a ghost of sunset sadness.
“Home seems so far from here. This is almost like another life.”
“I know. This is Elsewhere, and yet strange enough, I cannot get rid of the old things.”
“Old things?”
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“Oh, old things, mistakes, encumbrances, old baggage.” He said it lightly, unwilling to
mar the hour. He walked close, his hand sometimes touching hers for one whirling
second.
Don Julian’s nasal summons came to them on the wind.
Alfredo gripped the soft hand so near his own. At his touch, the girl turned her face
away, but he heard her voice say very low, “Good-bye.”
II
ALFREDO Salazar turned to the right where, farther on, the road broadened and entered
the heart of the town–heart of Chinese stores sheltered under low-hung roofs, of
indolent drug stores and tailor shops, of dingy shoe-repairing establishments, and a
cluttered goldsmith’s cubbyhole where a consumptive bent over a magnifying lens; heart
of old brick-roofed houses with quaint hand-and-ball knockers on the door; heart of
grass-grown plaza reposeful with trees, of ancient church and convento, now circled by
swallows gliding in flight as smooth and soft as the afternoon itself. Into the quickly
deepening twilight, the voice of the biggest of the church bells kept ringing its insistent
summons. Flocking came the devout with their long wax candles, young women in vivid
apparel (for this was Holy Thursday and the Lord was still alive), older women in sober
black skirts. Came too the young men in droves, elbowing each other under the talisay
tree near the church door. The gaily decked rice-paper lanterns were again on display
while from the windows of the older houses hung colored glass globes, heirlooms from a
day when grasspith wicks floating in coconut oil were the chief lighting device.
Soon a double row of lights emerged from the church and uncoiled down the length of
the street like a huge jewelled band studded with glittering clusters where the saints’
platforms were. Above the measured music rose the untutored voices of the choir,
steeped in incense and the acrid fumes of burning wax.
The sight of Esperanza and her mother sedately pacing behind Our Lady of Sorrows
suddenly destroyed the illusion of continuity and broke up those lines of light into
component individuals. Esperanza stiffened self-consciously, tried to look unaware, and
could not.
The line moved on.
Suddenly, Alfredo’s slow blood began to beat violently, irregularly. A girl was coming
down the line–a girl that was striking, and vividly alive, the woman that could cause
violent commotion in his heart, yet had no place in the completed ordering of his life.
Her glance of abstracted devotion fell on him and came to a brief stop.
The line kept moving on, wending its circuitous route away from the church and then
back again, where, according to the old proverb, all processions end.
At last Our Lady of Sorrows entered the church, and with her the priest and the choir,
whose voices now echoed from the arched ceiling. The bells rang the close of the
procession.
A round orange moon, “huge as a winnowing basket,” rose lazily into a clear sky,
whitening the iron roofs and dimming the lanterns at the windows. Along the still
65
densely shadowed streets the young women with their rear guard of males loitered and,
maybe, took the longest way home.
Toward the end of the row of Chinese stores, he caught up with Julia Salas. The crowd
had dispersed into the side streets, leaving Calle Real to those who lived farther out. It
was past eight, and Esperanza would be expecting him in a little while: yet the thought
did not hurry him as he said “Good evening” and fell into step with the girl.
“I had been thinking all this time that you had gone,” he said in a voice that was both
excited and troubled.
“No, my sister asked me to stay until they are ready to go.”
“Oh, is the Judge going?”
“Yes.”
The provincial docket had been cleared, and Judge del Valle had been assigned
elsewhere. As lawyer–and as lover–Alfredo had found that out long before.
“Mr. Salazar,” she broke into his silence, “I wish to congratulate you.”
Her tone told him that she had learned, at last. That was inevitable.
“For what?”
“For your approaching wedding.”
Some explanation was due her, surely. Yet what could he say that would not offend?
“I should have offered congratulations long before, but you know mere visitors are slow
about getting the news,” she continued.
He listened not so much to what she said as to the nuances in her voice. He heard
nothing to enlighten him, except that she had reverted to the formal tones of early
acquaintance. No revelation there; simply the old voice–cool, almost detached from
personality, flexible and vibrant, suggesting potentialities of song.
“Are weddings interesting to you?” he finally brought out quietly
“When they are of friends, yes.”
“Would you come if I asked you?”
“When is it going to be?”
“May,” he replied briefly, after a long pause.
“May is the month of happiness they say,” she said, with what seemed to him a shade of
irony.
“They say,” slowly, indifferently. “Would you come?”
“Why not?”
“No reason. I am just asking. Then you will?”
“If you will ask me,” she said with disdain.
66
“Then I ask you.”
“Then I will be there.”
The gravel road lay before them; at the road’s end the lighted windows of the house on
the hill. There swept over the spirit of Alfredo Salazar a longing so keen that it was pain,
a wish that, that house were his, that all the bewilderments of the present were not, and
that this woman by his side were his long wedded wife, returning with him to the peace
of home.
“Julita,” he said in his slow, thoughtful manner, “did you ever have to choose between
something you wanted to do and something you had to do?”
“No!”
“I thought maybe you had had that experience; then you could understand a man who
was in such a situation.”
“You are fortunate,” he pursued when she did not answer.
“Is–is this man sure of what he should do?”
“I don’t know, Julita. Perhaps not. But there is a point where a thing escapes us and
rushes downward of its own weight, dragging us along. Then it is foolish to ask whether
one will or will not, because it no longer depends on him.”
“But then why–why–” her muffled voice came. “Oh, what do I know? That is his problem
after all.”
“Doesn’t it–interest you?”
“Why must it? I–I have to say good-bye, Mr. Salazar; we are at the house.”
Without lifting her eyes she quickly turned and walked away.
Had the final word been said? He wondered. It had. Yet a feeble flutter of hope trembled
in his mind though set against that hope were three years of engagement, a very near
wedding, perfect understanding between the parents, his own conscience, and
Esperanza herself–Esperanza waiting, Esperanza no longer young, Esperanza the
efficient, the literal-minded, the intensely acquisitive.
He looked attentively at her where she sat on the sofa, appraisingly, and with a kind of
aversion which he tried to control.
She was one of those fortunate women who have the gift of uniformly acceptable
appearance. She never surprised one with unexpected homeliness nor with startling
reserves of beauty. At home, in church, on the street, she was always herself, a woman
past first bloom, light and clear of complexion, spare of arms and of breast, with a slight
convexity to thin throat; a woman dressed with self-conscious care, even elegance; a
woman distinctly not average.
She was pursuing an indignant relation about something or other, something about
Calixta, their note-carrier, Alfredo perceived, so he merely half-listened, understanding
imperfectly. At a pause he drawled out to fill in the gap: “Well, what of it?” The remark
sounded ruder than he had intended.
67
“She is not married to him,” Esperanza insisted in her thin, nervously pitched voice.
“Besides, she should have thought of us. Nanay practically brought her up. We never
thought she would turn out bad.”
What had Calixta done? Homely, middle-aged Calixta?
“You are very positive about her badness,” he commented dryly. Esperanza was always
positive.
“But do you approve?”
“Of what?”
“What she did.”
“No,” indifferently.
“Well?”
He was suddenly impelled by a desire to disturb the unvexed orthodoxy of her mind. “All
I say is that it is not necessarily wicked.”
“Why shouldn’t it be? You talked like an–immoral man. I did not know that your ideas
were like that.”
“My ideas?” he retorted, goaded by a deep, accumulated exasperation. “The only test I
wish to apply to conduct is the test of fairness. Am I injuring anybody? No? Then I am
justified in my conscience. I am right. Living with a man to whom she is not married–is
that it? It may be wrong, and again it may not.”
“She has injured us. She was ungrateful.” Her voice was tight with resentment.
“The trouble with you, Esperanza, is that you are–” he stopped, appalled by the passion
in his voice.
“Why do you get angry? I do not understand you at all! I think I know why you have
been indifferent to me lately. I am not blind, or deaf; I see and hear what perhaps some
are trying to keep from me.” The blood surged into his very eyes and his hearing
sharpened to points of acute pain. What would she say next?
“Why don’t you speak out frankly before it is too late? You need not think of me and of
what people will say.” Her voice trembled.
Alfredo was suffering as he could not remember ever having suffered before. What
people will say–what will they not say? What don’t they say when long engagements are
broken almost on the eve of the wedding?
“Yes,” he said hesitatingly, diffidently, as if merely thinking aloud, “one tries to be fair–
according to his lights–but it is hard. One would like to be fair to one’s self first. But that
is too easy, one does not dare–”
“What do you mean?” she asked with repressed violence. “Whatever my shortcomings,
and no doubt they are many in your eyes, I have never gone out of my way, of my
place, to find a man.”
68
Did she mean by this irrelevant remark that he it was who had sought her; or was that a
covert attack on Julia Salas?
“Esperanza–” a desperate plea lay in his stumbling words. “If you–suppose I–” Yet how
could a mere man word such a plea?
“If you mean you want to take back your word, if you are tired of–why don’t you tell me
you are tired of me?” she burst out in a storm of weeping that left him completely
shamed and unnerved.
The last word had been said.
III
AS Alfredo Salazar leaned against the boat rail to watch the evening settling over the
lake, he wondered if Esperanza would attribute any significance to this trip of his. He
was supposed to be in Sta. Cruz whither the case of the People of the Philippine Islands
vs. Belina et al had kept him, and there he would have been if Brigida Samuy had not
been so important to the defense. He had to find that elusive old woman. That the
search was leading him to that particular lake town which was Julia Salas’ home should
not disturb him unduly Yet he was disturbed to a degree utterly out of proportion to the
prosaicalness of his errand. That inner tumult was no surprise to him; in the last eight
years he had become used to such occasional storms. He had long realized that he could
not forget Julia Salas. Still, he had tried to be content and not to remember too much.
The climber of mountains who has known the back-break, the lonesomeness, and the
chill, finds a certain restfulness in level paths made easy to his feet. He looks up
sometimes from the valley where settles the dusk of evening, but he knows he must not
heed the radiant beckoning. Maybe, in time, he would cease even to look up.
He was not unhappy in his marriage. He felt no rebellion: only the calm of capitulation to
what he recognized as irresistible forces of circumstance and of character. His life had
simply ordered itself; no more struggles, no more stirring up of emotions that got a man
nowhere. From his capacity of complete detachment he derived a strange solace. The
essential himself, the himself that had its being in the core of his thought, would, he
reflected, always be free and alone. When claims encroached too insistently, as
sometimes they did, he retreated into the inner fastness, and from that vantage he saw
things and people around him as remote and alien, as incidents that did not matter. At
such times did Esperanza feel baffled and helpless; he was gentle, even tender, but
immeasurably far away, beyond her reach.
Lights were springing into life on the shore. That was the town, a little up-tilted town
nestling in the dark greenness of the groves. A snubcrested belfry stood beside the
ancient church. On the outskirts the evening smudges glowed red through the sinuous
mists of smoke that rose and lost themselves in the purple shadows of the hills. There
was a young moon which grew slowly luminous as the coral tints in the sky yielded to
the darker blues of evening.
The vessel approached the landing quietly, trailing a wake of long golden ripples on the
dark water. Peculiar hill inflections came to his ears from the crowd assembled to meet
the boat–slow, singing cadences, characteristic of the Laguna lake-shore speech. From
where he stood he could not distinguish faces, so he had no way of knowing whether
the presidente was there to meet him or not. Just then a voice shouted.
69
“Is the abogado there? Abogado!”
“What abogado?” someone irately asked.
That must be the presidente, he thought, and went down to the landing.
It was a policeman, a tall pock-marked individual. The presidente had left with Brigida
Samuy–Tandang “Binday”–that noon for Santa Cruz. Señor Salazar’s second letter had
arrived late, but the wife had read it and said, “Go and meet the abogado and invite him
to our house.”
Alfredo Salazar courteously declined the invitation. He would sleep on board since the
boat would leave at four the next morning anyway. So the presidente had received his
first letter? Alfredo did not know because that official had not sent an answer. “Yes,” the
policeman replied, “but he could not write because we heard that Tandang Binday was
in San Antonio so we went there to find her.”
San Antonio was up in the hills! Good man, the presidente! He, Alfredo, must do
something for him. It was not every day that one met with such willingness to help.
Eight o’clock, lugubriously tolled from the bell tower, found the boat settled into a
somnolent quiet. A cot had been brought out and spread for him, but it was too bare to
be inviting at that hour. It was too early to sleep: he would walk around the town. His
heart beat faster as he picked his way to shore over the rafts made fast to sundry piles
driven into the water.
How peaceful the town was! Here and there a little tienda was still open, its dim light
issuing forlornly through the single window which served as counter. An occasional
couple sauntered by, the women’s chinelas making scraping sounds. From a distance
came the shrill voices of children playing games on the street–tubigan perhaps, or
“hawk-and-chicken.” The thought of Julia Salas in that quiet place filled him with a
pitying sadness.
How would life seem now if he had married Julia Salas? Had he meant anything to her?
That unforgettable red-and-gold afternoon in early April haunted him with a sense of
incompleteness as restless as other unlaid ghosts. She had not married–why?
Faithfulness, he reflected, was not a conscious effort at regretful memory. It was
something unvolitional, maybe a recurrent awareness of irreplaceability. Irrelevant
trifles–a cool wind on his forehead, far-away sounds as of voices in a dream–at times
moved him to an oddly irresistible impulse to listen as to an insistent, unfinished prayer.
A few inquiries led him to a certain little tree-ceilinged street where the young moon
wove indistinct filigrees of fight and shadow. In the gardens the cotton tree threw its
angular shadow athwart the low stone wall; and in the cool, stilly midnight the cock’s
first call rose in tall, soaring jets of sound. Calle Luz.
Somehow or other, he had known that he would find her house because she would
surely be sitting at the window. Where else, before bedtime on a moonlit night? The
house was low and the light in the sala behind her threw her head into unmistakable
relief. He sensed rather than saw her start of vivid surprise.
“Good evening,” he said, raising his hat.
“Good evening. Oh! Are you in town?”
70
“On some little business,” he answered with a feeling of painful constraint.
“Won’t you come up?”
He considered. His vague plans had not included this. But Julia Salas had left the
window, calling to her mother as she did so. After a while, someone came downstairs
with a lighted candle to open the door. At last–he was shaking her hand.
She had not changed much–a little less slender, not so eagerly alive, yet something had
gone. He missed it, sitting opposite her, looking thoughtfully into her fine dark eyes. She
asked him about the home town, about this and that, in a sober, somewhat meditative
tone. He conversed with increasing ease, though with a growing wonder that he should
be there at all. He could not take his eyes from her face. What had she lost? Or was the
loss his? He felt an impersonal curiosity creeping into his gaze. The girl must have
noticed, for her cheek darkened in a blush.
Gently–was it experimentally?–he pressed her hand at parting; but his own felt
undisturbed and emotionless. Did she still care? The answer to the question hardly
interested him.
The young moon had set, and from the uninviting cot he could see one half of a star-
studded sky.
So that was all over.
Why had he obstinately clung to that dream?
So all these years–since when?–he had been seeing the light of dead stars, long
extinguished, yet seemingly still in their appointed places in the heavens.
An immense sadness as of loss invaded his spirit, a vast homesickness for some
immutable refuge of the heart far away where faded gardens bloom again, and where
live on in unchanging freshness, the dear, dead loves of vanished youth.
Harvest byLoreto Paras Sulit

HE first saw her in his brother’s eyes. The palay
stalks were taking on gold in the late afternoon sun,
were losing their trampled, wind-swept look and
stirring into little, almost inaudible whispers.
The rhythm of Fabian’s strokes was smooth and
unbroken. So many palay stalks had to be harvested
before sundown and there was no time to be lost in
idle dallying. But when he stopped to heap up the
fallen palay stalks he glanced at his brother as if to
fathom the other’s state of mind in that one, side-
long glance.
The swing of Vidal’s figure was as graceful as the downward curve of the crescent-
shaped scythe. How stubborn, this younger brother of his, how hard-headed, fumed
71
Fabian as he felled stalk after stalk. It is because he knows how very good-looking he is,
how he is so much run-after by all the women in town. The obstinate, young fool! With
his queer dreams, his strange adorations, his wistfulness for a life not of these fields, not
of their quiet, colorless women and the dullness of long nights of unbroken silence and
sleep. But he would bend… he must bend… one of these days.
Vidal stopped in his work to wipe off the heavy sweat from his brow. He wondered how
his brother could work that fast all day without pausing to rest, without slowing in the
rapidity of his strokes. But that was the reason the master would not let him go; he
could harvest a field in a morning that would require three men to finish in a day. He
had always been afraid of this older brother of his; there was something terrible in the
way he determined things, how he always brought them to pass, how he disregarded
the soft and the beautiful in his life and sometimes how he crushed, trampled people,
things he wanted destroyed. There were flowers, insects, birds of boyhood memories,
what Fabian had done to them. There was Tinay… she did not truly like him, but her
widowed mother had some lands… he won and married Tinay.
I wonder what can touch him. Vidal thought of miracles, perhaps a vision, a woman…
But no… he would overpower them…he was so strong with those arms of steel, those
huge arms of his that could throttle a spirited horse into obedience.
“Harvest time is almost ended, Vidal.” (I must be strong also, the other prayed). “Soon
the planting season will be on us and we shall have need of many carabaos. Milia’s
father has five. You have but to ask her and Milia will accept you any time. Why do you
delay…”
He stopped in surprise for his brother had sprung up so suddenly and from the look on
his face it was as if a shining glory was smiling shyly, tremulously in that adoring way of
his that called forth all the boyishness of his nature—There was the slow crunch, crunch
of footsteps on dried soil and Fabian sensed the presence of people behind him. Vidal
had taken off his wide, buri hat and was twisting and untwisting it nervously.
“Ah, it is my model! How are you, Vidal?” It was a voice too deep and throaty for a
woman but beneath it one could detect a gentle, smooth nuance, soft as silk. It affected
Fabian very queerly, he could feel his muscles tensing as he waited for her to speak
again. But he did not stop in work nor turn to look at her.
She was talking to Vidal about things he had no idea of. He could not understand why
the sound of her voice filled him with this resentment that was increasing with every
passing minute. She was so near him that when she gestured, perhaps as she spoke,
the silken folds of her dress
brushed against him slightly, and
her perfume, a very subtle
fragrance, was cool and scented
in the air about him.
“From now on he must work for
me every morning,
possibly all day.”
“Very well. Everything as
you please.” So it was the master
72
who was with her.

“He is your brother, you say, Vidal? Oh, your elder brother.” The curiosity in her voice
must be in her eyes. “He has very splendid arms.”
Then Fabian turned to look at her.
He had never seen anyone like her. She was tall, with a regal unconscious assurance in
her figure that she carried so well, and pale as though she had just recovered from a
recent illness. She was not exactly very young nor very beautiful. But there was
something disquieting and haunting in the unsymmetry of her features, in the queer
reflection of the dark blue-blackness of her hair, in her eyes, in that mole just above her
nether lips, that tinged her whole face with a strange loveliness. For, yes, she was
indeed beautiful. One discovered it after a second, careful glance. Then the whole plan
of the brow and lip and eye was revealed; one realized that her pallor was the ivory-
white of rice grain just husked, that the sinuous folds of silken lines were but the
undertones of the grace that flowed from her as she walked away from you.
The blood rushed hot to his very eyes and ears as he met her grave, searching look that
swept him from head to foot. She approached him and examined his hot, moist arms
critically.
“How splendid! How splendid!” she kept on murmuring.
Then “Thank you,” and taking and leaning on the arm of the master she walked slowly
away.
The two brothers returned to their work but to the very end of the day did not exchange
a word. Once Vidal attempted to whistle but gave it up after a few bars. When sundown
came they stopped harvesting and started on their way home. They walked with
difficulty on the dried rice paddies till they reached the end of the rice fields.
The stiffness, the peace of the twilit landscape was maddening to Fabian. It augmented
the spell of that woman that was still over him. It was queer how he kept on thinking
about her, on remembering the scent of her perfume, the brush of her dress against him
and the look of her eyes on his arms. If he had been in bed he would be tossing
painfully, feverishly. Why was her face always before him as though it were always
focused somewhere in the distance and he was forever walking up to it?
A large moth with mottled, highly colored wings fluttered blindly against the bough, its
long, feathery antennae quivering sensitively in the air. Vidal paused to pick it up, but
before he could do so his brother had hit it with the bundle of palay stalks he carried.
The moth fell to the ground, a mass of broken wings, of fluttering wing-dust.
After they had walked a distance, Vidal asked, “Why are you that way?”
“What is my way?”
“That—that way of destroying things that are beautiful like moths… like…”
“If the dust from the wings of a moth should get into your eyes, you would be blind.”
“That is not the reason.”
“Things that are beautiful have a way of hurting. I destroy it when I feel a hurt.”
To avoid the painful silence that would surely ensue Vidal talked on whatever subject
entered his mind. But gradually, slowly the topics converged into one. He found himself
73
talking about the woman who came to them this afternoon in the fields. She was a
relative of the master. A cousin, I think. They call her Miss Francia. But I know she has a
lovely, hidden name… like her beauty. She is convalescing from a very serious illness she
has had and to pass the time she makes men out of clay, of stone. Sometimes she uses
her fingers, sometimes a chisel.
One day Vidal came into the house with a message for the master. She saw him. He was
just the model for a figure she was working on; she had asked him to pose for her.
“Brother, her loveliness is one I cannot understand. When one talks to her forever so
long in the patio, many dreams, many desires come to me. I am lost… I am glad to be
lost.”
It was merciful the darkness was up on the fields. Fabian could not see his brother’s
face. But it was cruel that the darkness was heavy and without end except where it
reached the little, faint star. For in the deep darkness, he saw her face clearly and
understood his brother.
On the batalan of his home, two tall clay jars were full of water. He emptied one on his
feet, he cooled his warm face and bathed his arms in the other. The light from the kero-
sene lamp within came in wisps into the batalan. In the meager light he looked at his
arms to discover where their splendor lay. He rubbed them with a large, smooth pebble
till they glowed warm and rich brown. Gently he felt his own muscles, the strength, the
power beneath. His wife was crooning to the baby inside. He started guiltily and entered
the house.
Supper was already set on the table. Tinay would not eat; she could not leave the baby,
she said. She was a small, nervous woman still with the lingering prettiness of her youth.
She was rocking a baby in a swing made of a blanket tied at both ends to ropes hanging
from the ceiling. Trining, his other child, a girl of four, was in a corner playing siklot
solemnly all by herself.
Everything seemed a dream, a large spreading dream. This little room with all the people
inside, faces, faces in a dream. That woman in the fields, this afternoon, a colored, past
dream by now. But the unrest, the fever she had left behind… was still on him. He
turned almost savagely on his brother and spoke to break these two grotesque, dream
bubbles of his life. “When I was your age, Vidal, I was already married. It is high time
you should be settling down. There is Milia.”
“I have no desire to marry her nor anybody else. Just—just—for five carabaos.” There!
He had spoken out at last. What a relief it was. But he did not like the way his brother
pursed his lips tightly That boded not defeat. Vidal rose, stretching himself luxuriously.
On the door of the silid where he slept he paused to watch his little niece. As she threw
a pebble into the air he caught it and would not give it up. She pinched, bit, shook his
pants furiously while he laughed in great amusement.
“What a very pretty woman Trining is going to be. Look at her skin; white as rice grains
just husked; and her nose, what a high bridge. Ah, she is going to be a proud lady… and
what deep, dark eyes. Let me see, let me see. Why, you have a little mole on your lips.
That means you are very talkative.”
74
“You will wake up the baby. Vidal! Vidal!” Tinay rocked the child almost despairingly. But
the young man would not have stopped his teasing if Fabian had not called Trining to his
side.
“Why does she not braid her hair?” he asked his wife.
“Oh, but she is so pretty with her curls free that way about her head.”
“We shall have to trim her head. I will do it before going out to work tomorrow.”
Vidal bit his lips in anger. Sometimes… well, it was not his child anyway. He retired to his
room and fell in a deep sleep unbroken till after dawn when the sobs of a child awak-
ened him. Peering between the bamboo slats of the floor he could see dark curls falling
from a child’s head to the ground.
He avoided his brother from that morning. For one thing he did not want repetitions of
the carabao question with Milia to boot. For another there was the glorious world and
new life opened to him by his work in the master’s house. The glamour, the
enchantment of hour after hour spent on the shadow-flecked ylang-ylang scented patio
where she molded, shaped, reshaped many kinds of men, who all had his face from the
clay she worked on.
In the evening after supper he stood by the window and told the tale of that day to a
very quiet group. And he brought that look, that was more than a gleam of a voice made
weak by strong, deep emotions.
His brother saw and understood. Fury was a high flame in his heart… If that look, that
quiver of voice had been a moth, a curl on the dark head of his daughter… Now more
than ever he was determined to have Milia in his home as his brother’s wife… that would
come to pass. Someday, that look, that quiver would become a moth in his hands, a
frail, helpless moth.
When Vidal, one night, broke out the news Fabian knew he had to act at once. Miss
Francia would leave within two days; she wanted Vidal to go to the city with her, where
she would finish the figures she was working on.
“She will pay me more than I can earn here, and help me get a position there. And shall
always be near her. Oh, I am going! I am going!”
“And live the life of a—a servant?”
“What of that? I shall be near her always.”
“Why do you wish to be near her?”
“Why? Why? Oh, my God! Why?”
That sentence rang and resounded and vibrated in Fabian’s ears during the days that
followed. He had seen her closely only once and only glimpses thereafter. But the song
of loveliness had haunted his life thereafter. If by a magic transfusing he, Fabian, could
be Vidal and… and… how one’s thoughts can make one forget of the world. There she
was at work on a figure that represented a reaper who had paused to wipe off the heavy
sweat from his brow. It was Vidal in stone.
Again—as it ever would be—the disquieting nature of her loveliness was on him so that
all his body tensed and flexed as he gathered in at a glance all the marvel of her beauty.
75
She smiled graciously at him while he made known himself; he did not expect she would
remember him.
“Ah, the man with the splendid arms.”
“I am the brother of Vidal.” He had not forgotten to roll up his sleeves.
He did not know how he worded his thoughts, but he succeeded in making her
understand that Vidal could not possibly go with her, that he had to stay behind in the
fields.
There was an amusement rippling beneath her tones. “To marry the girl whose father
has five carabaos. You see, Vidal told me about it.”
He flushed again a painful brick-red; even to his eyes he felt the hot blood flow.
“That is the only reason to cover up something that would not be known. My brother has
wronged this girl. There will be a child.”
She said nothing, but the look in her face protested against what she had heard. It said,
it was not so.
But she merely answered, “I understand. He shall not go with me.” She called a servant,
gave him a twenty-peso bill and some instruction. “Vidal, is he at your house?” The
brother on the patio nodded.
Now they were alone again. After this afternoon he would never see her, she would
never know. But what had she to know? A pang without a voice, a dream without a
plan… how could they be understood in words.
“Your brother should never know you have told me the real reason why he should not
go with me. It would hurt him, I know.
“I have to finish this statue before I leave. The arms are still incomplete—would it be too
much to ask you to pose for just a little while?”
While she smoothed the clay, patted it and molded the vein, muscle, arm, stole the
firmness, the strength, of his arms to give to this lifeless statue, it seemed as if life left
him, left his arms that were being copied. She was lost in her work and noticed neither
the twilight stealing into the patio nor the silence brooding over them.
Wrapped in that silver-grey dusk of early night and silence she appeared in her true light
to the man who watched her every movement. She was one he had glimpsed and
crushed all his life, the shining glory in moth and flower and eyes he had never
understood because it hurt with its unearthly radiance.
If he could have the whole of her in the cup of his hands, drink of her strange loveliness,
forgetful of this unrest he called life, if… but his arms had already found their duplicate
in the white clay beyond…
When Fabian returned Vidal was at the batalan brooding over a crumpled twenty-peso
bill in his hands. The haggard tired look in his young eyes was as grey as the skies
above.
He was speaking to Tinay jokingly. “Soon all your sampaguitas and camias will be gone,
my dear sister-in-law because I shall be seeing Milia every night… and her father.” He
watched Fabian cleansing his face and arms and later wondered why it took his brother
that long to wash his arms, why he was rubbing them as hard as that…
76
Scent of Apples by Bienvenido N. Santos
When I arrived in Kalamazoo it was October and the

war was still on. Gold and silver stars hung on
pennants above silent windows of white and brick-red
cottages. In a backyard an old man burned leaves and
twigs while a gray-haired woman sat on the porch, her
red hands quiet on her lap, watching the smoke rising
above the elms, both of them thinking the same
thought perhaps, about a tall, grinning boy with his
blue eyes and flying hair, who went out to war: where
could he be now this month when leaves were turning
into gold and the fragrance of gathered apples was in
the wind?
It was a cold night when I left my room at the hotel for
a usual speaking engagement. I walked but a little
way. A heavy wind coming up from Lake Michigan was
icy on the face. If felt like winter straying early in the
northern woodlands. Under the lampposts the leaves shone like bronze. And they rolled
on the pavements like the ghost feet of a thousand autumns long dead, long before the
boys left for faraway lands without great icy winds and promise of winter early in the air,
lands without apple trees, the singing and the gold!
It was the same night I met Celestino Fabia, "just a Filipino farmer" as he called himself,
who had a farm about thirty miles east of Kalamazoo.
"You came all that way on a night like this just to hear me talk?"
"I've seen no Filipino for so many years now," he answered quickly. "So when I saw your
name in the papers where it says you come from the Islands and that you're going to
talk, I come right away."
Earlier that night I had addressed a college crowd, mostly women. It appeared they
wanted me to talk about my country, they wanted me to tell them things about it
because my country had become a lost country. Everywhere in the land the enemy
stalked. Over it a great silence hung, and their boys were there, unheard from, or they
were on their way to some little known island on the Pacific, young boys all, hardly men,
thinking of harvest moons and the smell of forest fire.
It was not hard talking about our own people. I knew them well and I loved them. And
they seemed so far away during those terrible years that I must have spoken of them
with a little fervor, a little nostalgia.
In the open forum that followed, the audience wanted to know whether there was much
difference between our women and the American women. I tried to answer the question
as best I could, saying, among other things, that I did not know that much
about American women, except that they looked friendly, but differences or similarities
in inner qualities such as naturally belonged to the heart or to the mind, I could only
speak about with vagueness.
77
While I was trying to explain away the fact that it was not easy to make comparisons, a
man rose from the rear of the hall, wanting to say something. In the distance, he looked
slight and old and very brown. Even before he spoke, I knew that he was, like me, a
Filipino.
"I'm a Filipino," he began, loud and clear, in a voice that seemed used to wide open
spaces, "I'm just a Filipino farmer out in the country." He waved his hand toward the
door. "I left the Philippines more than twenty years ago and have never been back.
Never will perhaps. I want to find out, sir, are our Filipino women the same like they
were twenty years ago?"
As he sat down, the hall filled with
voices, hushed and intrigued. I
weighed my answer carefully. I
did not want to tell a lie yet I did not
want to say anything that
would seem platitudinous,
insincere. But more important than
these considerations, it
seemed to me that moment as I
looked towards my countryman, I
must give him an answer that would
not make him so unhappy. Surely, all these years, he must have held on to certain
ideals, certain beliefs, even illusions peculiar to the exile.
"First," I said as the voices gradually died down and every eye seemed upon me, "First,
tell me what our women were like twenty years ago."
The man stood to answer. "Yes," he said, "you're too young . . . Twenty years ago our
women were nice, they were modest, they wore their hair long, they dressed proper and
went for no monkey business. They were natural, they went to church regular, and they
were faithful." He had spoken slowly, and now in what seemed like an
afterthought, added, "It's the men who ain't."Now I knew what I was going to say.
"Well," I began, "it will interest you to know that our women have changed--but
definitely! The change, however, has been on the outside only. Inside, here," pointing to
the heart, "they are the same as they were twenty years ago. God-fearing, faithful,
modest, and nice."
The man was visibly moved. "I'm very happy, sir," he said, in the manner of one who,
having stakes on the land, had found no cause to regret one's sentimental investment.
After this, everything that was said and done in that hall that night seemed like an anti-
climax, and later, as we walked outside, he gave me his name and told me of his farm
thirty miles east of the city.
We had stopped at the main entrance to the hotel lobby. We had not talked very much
on the way. As a matter of fact, we were never alone. Kindly American friends talked to
us, asked us questions, said goodnight. So now I asked him whether he cared
to step into the lobby with me and talk.
"No, thank you," he said, "you are tired. And I don't want to stay out too late."
"Yes, you live very far."
78
"I got a car," he said, "besides . . . "

Now he smiled, he truly smiled. All night I had been watching his face and I wondered
when he was going to smile.
"Will you do me a favor, please," he continued smiling almost sweetly. "I want you to
have dinner with my family out in the country. I'd call for you tomorrow afternoon,
then drive you back. Will that be alright?"
"Of course," I said. "I'd love to meet your family." I was leaving Kalamazoo for Muncie,
Indiana, in two days. There was plenty of time.
"You will make my wife very happy," he said.
"You flatter me."
"Honest. She'll be very happy. Ruth is a country girl and hasn't met many Filipinos. I
mean Filipinos younger than I, cleaner looking. We're just poor farmer folk, you know,
and we don't get to town very often. Roger, that's my boy, he goes to school in town. A
bus takes him early in the morning and he's back in the afternoon. He's nice boy."
"I bet he is," I agreed. "I've seen the children of some of the boys by their American
wives and the boys are tall, taller than their father, and very good looking."
"Roger, he'd be tall. You'll like him."
Then he said goodbye and I waved to him as he disappeared in the darkness.
The next day he came, at about three in the afternoon. There was a mild, ineffectual
sun shining, and it was not too cold. He was wearing an old brown tweed jacket and
worsted trousers to match. His shoes were polished, and although the green of his tie
seemed faded, a colored shirt hardly accentuated it. He looked younger than he
appeared the night before now that he was clean shaven and seemed ready to go to a
party. He was grinning as we met.
"Oh, Ruth can't believe it," he kept repeating as he led me to his car--a nondescript
thing in faded black that had known better days and many hands. "I says to her, I'm
bringing you a first class Filipino, and she says, aw, go away, quit kidding, there's no
such thing as first class Filipino. But Roger, that's my boy, he believed me immediately.
What's he like, daddy, he asks. Oh, you will see, I says, he's first class. Like you daddy?
No, no, I laugh at him, your daddy ain't first class. Aw, but you are, daddy, he says. So
you can see what a nice boy he is, so innocent. Then Ruth starts griping about the
house, but the house is a mess, she says. True it's a mess, it's always a mess, but you
don't mind, do you? We're poor folks, you know.
The trip seemed interminable. We passed through narrow lanes and disappeared into
thickets, and came out on barren land overgrown with weeds in places. All around were
dead leaves and dry earth. In the distance were apple trees.
"Aren't those apple trees?" I asked wanting to be sure.
"Yes, those are apple trees," he replied. "Do you like apples? I got lots of 'em. I got an
apple orchard, I'll show you."
All the beauty of the afternoon seemed in the distance, on the hills, in the dull soft sky.
"Those trees are beautiful on the hills," I said.
79
"Autumn's a lovely season. The trees are getting ready to die, and they show their
colors, proud-like."
"No such thing in our own country," I said.
That remark seemed unkind, I realized later. It touched him off on a long deserted
tangent, but ever there perhaps. How many times did lonely mind take unpleasant
detours away from the familiar winding lanes towards home for fear of this, the
remembered hurt, the long lost youth, the grim shadows of the years; how many times
indeed, only the exile knows.
It was a rugged road we were traveling and the car made so much noise that I could not
hear everything he said, but I understood him. He was telling his story for the first time
in many years. He was remembering his own youth. He was thinking of home. In these
odd moments there seemed no cause for fear no cause at all, no pain. That would come
later. In the night perhaps. Or lonely on the farm under the apple trees.
In this old Visayan town, the streets are narrow and dirty and strewn with coral shells.
You have been there? You could not have missed our house, it was the biggest in town,
one of the oldest, ours was a big family. The house stood right on the edge of the
street. A door opened heavily and you enter a dark hall leading to the stairs. There is the
smell of chickens roosting on the low-topped walls, there is the familiar sound they make
and you grope your way up a massive staircase, the bannisters smooth upon the
trembling hand. Such nights, they are no better than the days, windows are closed
against the sun; they close heavily.
Mother sits in her corner looking very white and sick. This was her world, her domain. In
all these years, I cannot remember the sound of her voice. Father was different. He
moved about. He shouted. He ranted. He lived in the past and talked of honor as though
it were the only thing.
I was born in that house. I grew up there into a pampered brat. I was mean. One day I
broke their hearts. I saw mother cry wordlessly as father heaped his curses upon me
and drove me out of the house, the gate closing heavily after me. And my brothers and
sisters took up my father's hate for me and multiplied it numberless times in their own
broken hearts. I was no good.
But sometimes, you know, I miss that house, the roosting chickens on the low-topped
walls. I miss my brothers and sisters, Mother sitting in her chair, looking like a pale
ghost in a corner of the room. I would remember the great live posts, massive tree
trunks from the forests. Leafy plants grew on the sides, buds pointing downwards, wilted
and died before they could become flowers. As they fell on the floor, father bent to pick
them and throw them out into the coral streets. His hands were strong. I have kissed
these hands . . . many times, many times.
Finally we rounded a deep curve and suddenly came upon a shanty, all but ready to
crumble in a heap on the ground, its plastered walls were rotting away, the floor was
hardly a foot from the ground. I thought of the cottages of the poor colored folk in the
south, the hovels of the poor everywhere in the land. This one stood all by itself as
though by common consent all the folk that used to live here had decided to say away,
despising it, ashamed of it. Even the lovely season could not color it with beauty.
A dog barked loudly as we approached. A fat blonde woman stood at the door with a
little boy by her side. Roger seemed newly scrubbed. He hardly took his eyes off me.
80
Ruth had a clean apron around her shapeless waist. Now as she shook my hands in
sincere delight I noticed shamefacedly (that I should notice) how rough her hands were,
how coarse and red with labor, how ugly! She was no longer young and her smile was
pathetic.
As we stepped inside and the door closed behind us, immediately I was aware of the
familiar scent of apples. The room was bare except for a few ancient pieces of second-
hand furniture. In the middle of the room stood a stove to keep the family warm in
winter. The walls were bare. Over the dining table hung a lamp yet unlighted.
Ruth got busy with the drinks. She kept coming in and out of a rear room that must
have been the kitchen and soon the table was heavy with food, fried chicken legs and
rice, and green peas and corn on the ear. Even as we ate, Ruth kept standing, and going
to the kitchen for more food. Roger ate like a little gentleman.
"Isn't he nice looking?" his father asked.
"You are a handsome boy, Roger," I said.
The boy smiled at me. You look like Daddy," he said.
Afterwards I noticed an old picture leaning on the top of a dresser and stood to pick it
up. It was yellow and soiled with many fingerings. The faded figure of a woman in
Philippine dress could yet be distinguished although the face had become a blur.
"Your . . . " I began.
"I don't know who she is," Fabia hastened to say. "I picked that picture many years ago
in a room on La Salle street in Chicago. I have often wondered who she is."
"The face wasn't a blur in the beginning?"
"Oh, no. It was a young face and good."
Ruth came with a plate full of apples.
"Ah," I cried, picking out a ripe one. "I've been thinking where all the scent of apples
came from. The room is full of it."
"I'll show you," said Fabia.
He showed me a backroom, not very big. It was half-full of apples.
"Every day," he explained, "I take some of them to town to sell to the groceries. Prices
have been low. I've been losing on the trips."
"These apples will spoil," I said.
"We'll feed them to the pigs."
Then he showed me around the farm. It was twilight now and the apple trees stood bare
against a glowing western sky. In apple blossom time it must be lovely here. But what
about wintertime?
One day, according to Fabia, a few years ago, before Roger was born, he had an attack
of acute appendicitis. It was deep winter. The snow lay heavy everywhere. Ruth was
pregnant and none too well herself. At first she did not know what to do. She bundled
him in warm clothing and put him on a cot near the stove. She shoveled the snow from
their front door and practically carried the suffering man on her shoulders, dragging him
through the newly made path towards the road where they waited for the U.S. Mail car
81
to pass. Meanwhile snowflakes poured all over them and she kept rubbing the man's
arms and legs as she herself nearly froze to death.
"Go back to the house, Ruth!" her husband cried, "you'll freeze to death."
But she clung to him wordlessly. Even as she massaged his arms and legs, her tears
rolled down her cheeks. "I won't leave you," she repeated.
Finally the U.S. Mail car arrived. The mailman, who knew them well, helped them board
the car, and, without stopping on his usual route, took the sick man and his wife direct
to the nearest hospital.
Ruth stayed in the hospital with Fabia. She slept in a corridor outside the patients' ward
and in the day time helped in scrubbing the floor and washing the dishes and cleaning
the men's things. They didn't have enough money and Ruth was willing to work like a
slave.
"Ruth's a nice girl," said Fabia, "like our own Filipino women."
Before nightfall, he took me back to the hotel. Ruth and Roger stood at the door holding
hands and smiling at me. From inside the room of the shanty, a low light flickered. I had
a last glimpse of the apple trees in the orchard under the darkened sky as Fabia backed
up the car. And soon we were on our way back to town. The dog had started barking.
We could hear it for some time, until finally, we could not hear it anymore, and all was
darkness around us, except where the headlamps revealed a stretch of road leading
somewhere.
Fabia did not talk this time. I didn't seem to have anything to say myself. But when
finally we came to the hotel and I got down, Fabia said, "Well, I guess I won't be seeing
you again."
It was dimly lighted in front of the hotel and I could hardly see Fabia's face. Without
getting off the car, he moved to where I had sat, and I saw him extend his hand. I
gripped it.
"Tell Ruth and Roger," I said, "I love them."
He dropped my hand quickly. "They'll be waiting for me now," he said.
"Look," I said, not knowing why I said it, "one of these days, very soon, I hope, I'll be
going home. I could go to your town."
"No," he said softly, sounding very much defeated but brave, "Thanks a lot. But, you
see, nobody would remember me now."
Then he started the car, and as it moved away, he waved his hand.
"Goodbye," I said, waving back into the darkness. And suddenly the night was cold like
winter straying early in these northern woodlands.
I hurried inside. There was a train the next morning that left for Muncie, Indiana, at a
quarter after eight.
82
How My Brother Leon Brought Home A Wife by Manuel E. Arguilla
She stepped down from the carretela of Ca Celin with a

quick, delicate grace. She was lovely. SHe was tall. She
looked up to my brother with a smile, and her forehead
was on a level with his mouth.
"You are Baldo," she said and placed her hand lightly on
my shoulder. Her nails were long, but they were not
painted. She was fragrant like a morning when papayas
are in bloom. And a small dimple appeared momently
high on her right cheek. "And this is Labang of whom I
have heard so much." She held the wrist of one hand
with the other and looked at Labang, and Labang never
stopped chewing his cud. He swallowed and brought up
to his mouth more cud and the sound of his insides was like a drum.
I laid a hand on Labang's massive neck and said to her: "You may scratch his forehead
now."
She hesitated and I saw that her eyes were on the long, curving horns. But she came
and touched Labang's forehead with her long fingers, and Labang never stopped
chewing his cud except that his big eyes half closed. And by and by she was scratching
his forehead very daintily.
My brother Leon put down the two trunks on the grassy side of the road. He paid Ca
Celin twice the usual fare from the station to the edge of Nagrebcan. Then he was
standing beside us, and she turned to him eagerly. I watched Ca Celin, where he stood
in front of his horse, and he ran his fingers through its forelock and could not keep his
eyes away from her.
"Maria---" my brother Leon said.
He did not say Maring. He did not say Mayang. I knew then that he had always called
her Maria and that to us all she would be Maria; and in my mind I said 'Maria' and it was
a beautiful name.
"Yes, Noel."
Now where did she get that name? I pondered the matter quietly to myself, thinking
Father might not like it. But it was only the name of my brother Leon said backward and
it sounded much better that way.
"There is Nagrebcan, Maria," my brother Leon said, gesturing widely toward the west.
She moved close to him and slipped her arm through his. And after a while she said
quietly.
"You love Nagrebcan, don't you, Noel?"
83
Ca Celin drove away hi-yi-ing to his horse loudly. At the bend of the camino real where
the big duhat tree grew, he rattled the handle of his braided rattan whip against the
spokes of the wheel.
We stood alone on the roadside.
The sun was in our eyes, for it was dipping into the bright sea. The sky was wide and
deep and very blue above us: but along the saw-tooth rim of the Katayaghan hills to the
southwest flamed huge masses of clouds. Before us the fields swam in a golden haze
through which floated big purple and red and yellow bubbles when I looked at the
sinking sun. Labang's white coat, which I had wshed and brushed that morning with
coconut husk, glistened like beaten cotton under the lamplight and his horns appeared
tipped with fire.
He faced the sun and from his mouth came a call

so loud and vibrant that the earth seemed to tremble
underfoot. And far away in the middle of the field a
cow lowed softly in answer.
"Hitch him to the cart, Baldo," my brother Leon

said, laughing, and she laughed with him a big
uncertainly, and I saw that he had put his arm
around her shoulders.
"Why does he make that sound?" she asked. "I have

never heard the like of it."
"There is not another like it," my brother Leon

said. "I have yet to hear another bull call like Labang.
In all the world there is no other bull like him."
She was smiling at him, and I stopped in the act of

tying the sinta across Labang's neck to the
opposite end of the yoke, because her teeth were very white, her eyes were so full of
laughter, and there was the small dimple high up on her right cheek.
"If you continue to talk about him like that, either I shall fall in love with him or become
greatly jealous."
My brother Leon laughed and she laughed and they looked at each other and it seemed
to me there was a world of laughter between them and in them.
I climbed into the cart over the wheel and Labang would have bolted, for he was always
like that, but I kept a firm hold on his rope. He was restless and would not stand still, so
that my brother Leon had to say "Labang" several times. When he was quiet again, my
brother Leon lifted the trunks into the cart, placing the smaller on top.
She looked down once at her high-heeled shoes, then she gave her left hand to my
brother Leon, placed a foot on the hub of the wheel, and in one breath she had swung
up into the cart. Oh, the fragrance of her. But Labang was fairly dancing with impatience
and it was all I could do to keep him from running away.
"Give me the rope, Baldo," my brother Leon said. "Maria, sit down on the hay and hold
on to anything." Then he put a foot on the left shaft and that instand labang leaped
84
forward. My brother Leon laughed as he drew himself up to the top of the side of the
cart and made the slack of the rope hiss above the back of labang. The wind whistled
against my cheeks and the rattling of the wheels on the pebbly road echoed in my ears.
She sat up straight on the bottom of the cart, legs bent togther to one side, her skirts
spread over them so that only the toes and heels of her shoes were visible. her eyes
were on my brother Leon's back; I saw the wind on her hair. When Labang slowed
down, my brother Leon handed to me the rope. I knelt on the straw inside the cart and
pulled on the rope until Labang was merely shuffling along, then I made him turn
around.
"What is it you have forgotten now, Baldo?" my brother Leon said.
I did not say anything but tickled with my fingers the rump of Labang; and away we
went---back to where I had unhitched and waited for them. The sun had sunk and down
from the wooded sides of the Katayaghan hills shadows were stealing into the fields.
High up overhead the sky burned with many slow fires.
When I sent Labang down the deep cut that would take us to the dry bed of the Waig
which could be used as a path to our place during the dry season, my brother Leon laid
a hand on my shoulder and said sternly:
"Who told you to drive through the fields tonight?"
His hand was heavy on my shoulder, but I did not look at him or utter a word until we
were on the rocky bottom of the Waig.
"Baldo, you fool, answer me before I lay the rope of Labang on you. Why do you follow
the Wait instead of the camino real?"
His fingers bit into my shoulder.
"Father, he told me to follow the Waig tonight, Manong."
Swiftly, his hand fell away from my shoulder and he reached for the rope of Labang.
Then my brother Leon laughed, and he sat back, and laughing still, he said:
"And I suppose Father also told you to hitch Labang to the cart and meet us with him
instead of with Castano and the calesa."
Without waiting for me to answer, he turned to her and said, "Maria, why do you think
Father should do that, now?" He laughed and added, "Have you ever seen so many stars
before?"
I looked back and they were sitting side by side, leaning against the trunks, hands
clasped across knees. Seemingly, but a man's height above the tops of the steep banks
of the Wait, hung the stars. But in the deep gorge the shadows had fallen heavily, and
even the white of Labang's coat was merely a dim, grayish blur. Crickets chirped from
their homes in the cracks in the banks. The thick, unpleasant smell of dangla bushes and
cooling sun-heated earth mingled with the clean, sharp scent of arrais roots exposed to
the night air and of the hay inside the cart.
85
"Look, Noel, yonder is our star!" Deep surprise and gladness were in her voice. Very low
in the west, almost touching the ragged edge of the bank, was the star, the biggest and
brightest in the sky.
"I have been looking at it," my brother Leon said. "Do you remember how I would tell
you that when you want to see stars you must come to Nagrebcan?"
"Yes, Noel," she said. "Look at it," she murmured, half to herself. "It is so many times
bigger and brighter than it was at Ermita beach."
"The air here is clean, free of dust and smoke."
"So it is, Noel," she said, drawing a long breath.
"Making fun of me, Maria?"
She laughed then and they laughed together and she took my brother Leon's hand and
put it against her face.
I stopped Labang, climbed down, and lighted the lantern that hung from the cart
between the wheels.
"Good boy, Baldo," my brother Leon said as I climbed back into the cart, and my heart
sant.
Now the shadows took fright and did not crowd so near. Clumps of andadasi and arrais
flashed into view and quickly disappeared as we passed by. Ahead, the elongated
shadow of Labang bobbled up and down and swayed drunkenly from side to side, for
the lantern rocked jerkily with the cart.
"Have we far to go yet, Noel?" she asked.
"Ask Baldo," my brother Leon said, "we have been neglecting him."
"I am asking you, Baldo," she said.
Without looking back, I answered, picking my words slowly:
"Soon we will get out of the Wait and pass into the fields. After the fields is home---
Manong."
"So near already."
I did not say anything more because I did not know what to make of the tone of her
voice as she said her last words. All the laughter seemed to have gone out of her. I
waited for my brother Leon to say something, but he was not saying anything. Suddenly
he broke out into song and the song was 'Sky Sown with Stars'---the same that he and
Father sang when we cut hay in the fields at night before he went away to study. He
must have taught her the song because she joined him, and her voice flowed into his
like a gentle stream meeting a stronger one. And each time the wheels encountered a
big rock, her voice would catch in her throat, but my brother Leon would sing on, until,
laughing softly, she would join him again.
Then we were climbing out into the fields, and through the spokes of the wheels the
light of the lantern mocked the shadows. Labang quickened his steps. The jolting
became more frequent and painful as we crossed the low dikes.
86
"But it is so very wide here," she said. The light of the stars broke and scattered the
darkness so that one could see far on every side, though indistinctly.
"You miss the houses, and the cars, and the people and the noise, don't you?" My
brother Leon stopped singing.
"Yes, but in a different way. I am glad they are not here."
With difficulty I turned Labang to the left, for he wanted to go straight on. He was
breathing hard, but I knew he was more thirsty than tired. In a little while we drope up
the grassy side onto the camino real.
"---you see," my brother Leon was explaining, "the camino real curves around the foot
of the Katayaghan hills and passes by our house. We drove through the fields because---
but I'll be asking Father as soon as we get home."
"Noel," she said.
"Yes, Maria."
"I am afraid. He may not like me."
"Does that worry you still, Maria?" my brother Leon said. "From the way you talk, he
might be an ogre, for all the world. Except when his leg that was wounded in the
Revolution is troubling him, Father is the mildest-tempered, gentlest man I know."
We came to the house of Lacay Julian and I spoke to Labang loudly, but Moning did not
come to the window, so I surmised she must be eating with the rest of her family. And I
thought of the food being made ready at home and my mouth watered. We met the
twins, Urong and Celin, and I said "Hoy!" calling them by name. And they shouted back
and asked if my brother Leon and his wife were with me. And my brother Leon shouted
to them and then told me to make Labang run; their answers were lost in the noise of
the wheels.
I stopped labang on the road before our house and would have gotten down but my
brother Leon took the rope and told me to stay in the cart. He turned Labang into the
open gate and we dashed into our yard. I thought we would crash into the camachile
tree, but my brother Leon reined in Labang in time. There was light downstairs in the
kitchen, and Mother stood in the doorway, and I could see her smiling shyly. My brother
Leon was helping Maria over the wheel. The first words that fell from his lips after he
had kissed Mother's hand were:
"Father... where is he?"
"He is in his room upstairs," Mother said, her face becoming serious. "His leg is
bothering him again."
I did not hear anything more because I had to go back to the cart to unhitch Labang.
But I hardly tied him under the barn when I heard Father calling me. I met my brother
Leon going to bring up the trunks. As I passed through the kitchen, there were Mother
and my sister Aurelia and Maria and it seemed to me they were crying, all of them.
There was no light in Father's room. There was no movement. He sat in the big armchair
by the western window, and a star shone directly through it. He was smoking, but he
87
removed the roll of tobacco from his mouth when he saw me. He laid it carefully on the
windowsill before speaking.
"Did you meet anybody on the way?" he asked.
"No, Father," I said. "Nobody passes through the Waig at night."
He reached for his roll of tobacco and hithced himself up in the chair.
"She is very beautiful, Father."
"Was she afraid of Labang?" My father had not raised his voice, but the room seemed to
resound with it. And again I saw her eyes on the long curving horns and the arm of my
brother Leon around her shoulders.
"No, Father, she was not afraid."
"On the way---"
"She looked at the stars, Father. And Manong Leon sang."
"What did he sing?"
"---Sky Sown with Stars... She sang with him."
He was silent again. I could hear the low voices of Mother and my sister Aurelia
downstairs. There was also the voice of my brother Leon, and I thought that Father's
voice must have been like it when Father was young. He had laid the roll of tobacco on
the windowsill once more. I watched the smoke waver faintly upward from the lighted
end and vanish slowly into the night outside.
The door opened and my brother Leon and Maria came in.
"Have you watered Labang?" Father spoke to me.
I told him that Labang was resting yet under the barn.
"It is time you watered him, my son," my father said.
I looked at Maria and she was lovely. She was tall. Beside my brother Leon, she was tall
and very still. Then I went out, and in the darkened hall the fragrance of her was like a
morning when papayas are in bloom.
May Day Eveby Nick Joaquin
The old people had ordered that the dancing should

stop at ten o’clock but it was almost midnight before
the carriages came filing up the departing guests,
while the girls who were staying were promptly herded
upstairs to the bedrooms, the young men gathering
around to wish them a good night and lamenting their
ascent with mock signs and moaning, proclaiming
themselves disconsolate but straightway going off to
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finish the punch and the brandy though they were quite drunk already and simply
bursting with wild spirits, merriment, arrogance and audacity, for they were young bucks
newly arrived from Europe; the ball had been in their honor; and they had waltzed and
polka-ed and bragged and swaggered and flirted all night and where in no mood to
sleep yet--no, caramba, not on this moist tropic eve! not on this mystic May eve! --with
the night still young and so seductive that it was madness not to go out, not to go forth-
--and serenade the neighbors! cried one; and swim in the Pasid! cried another; and
gather fireflies! cried a third—whereupon there arose a great clamor for coats and
capes, for hats and canes, and they were a couple of street-lamps flickered and a last
carriage rattled away upon the cobbles while the blind black houses muttered hush-
hush, their tile roofs looming like sinister chessboards against a wile sky murky with
clouds, save where an evil young moon prowled about in a corner or where a murderous
wind whirled, whistling and whining, smelling now of the sea and now of the summer
orchards and wafting unbearable childhood fragrances or ripe guavas to the young men
trooping so uproariously down the street that the girls who were desiring upstairs in the
bedrooms catered screaming to the windows, crowded giggling at the windows, but
were soon sighing amorously over those young men bawling below; over those wicked
young men and their handsome apparel, their proud flashing eyes, and their elegant
mustaches so black and vivid in the moonlight that the girls were quite ravished with
love, and began crying to one another how carefree were men but how awful to be a girl
and what a horrid, horrid world it was, till old Anastasia plucked them off by the ear or
the pigtail and chases them off to bed---while from up the street came the clackety-clack
of the watchman’s boots on the cobble and the clang-clang of his lantern against his
knee, and the mighty roll of his great voice booming through the night, "Guardia serno-
o-o! A las doce han dado-o-o.
And it was May again, said the old Anastasia. It was the first day of May and witches
were abroad in the night, she said--for it was a night of divination, and night of lovers,
and those who cared might peer into a mirror and would there behold the face of
whoever it was they were fated to marry, said the old Anastasia as she hobble about
picking up the piled crinolines and folding up shawls and raking slippers in corner while
the girls climbing into four great poster-beds that overwhelmed the room began
shrieking with terror, scrambling over each other and imploring the old woman not to
frighten them.
"Enough, enough, Anastasia! We want to sleep!"
"Go scare the boys instead, you old witch!"
"She is not a witch, she is a maga. She is a maga. She was born of Christmas Eve!"
"St. Anastasia, virgin and martyr."
"Huh? Impossible! She has conquered seven husbands! Are you a virgin, Anastasia?"
"No, but I am seven times a martyr because of you girls!"
"Let her prophesy, let her prophesy! Whom will I marry, old gypsy? Come, tell me."
"You may learn in a mirror if you are not afraid."
"I am not afraid, I will go," cried the young cousin Agueda, jumping up in bed.
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"Girls, girls---we are making too much noise! My mother will hear and will come and
pinch us all. Agueda, lie down! And you Anastasia, I command you to shut your mouth
and go away!""Your mother told me to stay here all night, my grand lady!"
"And I will not lie down!" cried the rebellious Agueda, leaping to the floor. "Stay, old
woman. Tell me what I have to do."
"Tell her! Tell her!" chimed the other girls.
The old woman dropped the clothes she
had gathered and approached and fixed her
eyes on the girl. "You must take a candle," she
instructed, "and go into a room that is dark
and that has a mirror in it and you must be
alone in the room. Go up to the mirror and close
your eyes and shy:
Mirror, mirror, show to me him whose woman I
will be. If all goes right, just above your left
shoulder will appear the face of the man you
will marry." A silence. Then: "And hat if all does
not go right?" asked Agueda. "Ah, then the
Lord have mercy on you!" "Why." "Because
you may see--the Devil!"
The girls screamed and clutched one another, shivering. "But what nonsense!" cried
Agueda. "This is the year 1847. There are no devil anymore!" Nevertheless she had
turned pale. "But where could I go, hugh? Yes, I know! Down to the sala. It has that big
mirror and no one is there now." "No, Agueda, no! It is a mortal sin! You will see the
devil!" "I do not care! I am not afraid! I will go!" "Oh, you wicked girl! Oh, you mad girl!"
"If you do not come to bed, Agueda, I will call my mother." "And if you do I will tell her
who came to visit you at the convent last March. Come, old woman---give me that
candle. I go." "Oh girls---give me that candle, I go."
But Agueda had already slipped outside; was already tiptoeing across the hall; her feet
bare and her dark hair falling down her shoulders and streaming in the wind as she fled
down the stairs, the lighted candle sputtering in one hand while with the other she
pulled up her white gown from her ankles. She paused breathless in the doorway to the
sala and her heart failed her. She tried to imagine the room filled again with lights,
laughter, whirling couples, and the jolly jerky music of the fiddlers. But, oh, it was a dark
den, a weird cavern for the windows had been closed and the furniture stacked up
against the walls. She crossed herself and stepped inside.
The mirror hung on the wall before her; a big antique mirror with a gold frame carved
into leaves and flowers and mysterious curlicues. She saw herself approaching fearfully
in it: a small while ghost that the darkness bodied forth---but not willingly, not
completely, for her eyes and hair were so dark that the face approaching in the mirror
seemed only a mask that floated forward; a bright mask with two holes gaping in it,
blown forward by the white cloud of her gown. But when she stood before the mirror
she lifted the candle level with her chin and the dead mask bloomed into her living face.
She closed her eyes and whispered the incantation. When she had finished such a terror
took hold of her that she felt unable to move, unable to open her eyes and thought she
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would stand there forever, enchanted. But she heard a step behind her, and a
smothered giggle, and instantly opened her eyes.
"And what did you see, Mama? Oh, what was it?" But Dona Agueda had forgotten the
little girl on her lap: she was staring pass the curly head nestling at her breast and
seeing herself in the big mirror hanging in the room. It was the same room and the
same mirror out the face she now saw in it was an old face---a hard, bitter, vengeful
face, framed in graying hair, and so sadly altered, so sadly different from that other face
like a white mask, that fresh young face like a pure mask than she had brought before
this mirror one wild May Day midnight years and years ago.... "But what was it Mama?
Oh please go on! What did you see?" Dona Agueda looked down at her daughter but her
face did not soften though her eyes filled with tears. "I saw the devil." she said bitterly.
The child blanched. "The devil, Mama? Oh... Oh..." "Yes, my love. I opened my eyes and
there in the mirror, smiling at me over my left shoulder, was the face of the devil." "Oh,
my poor little Mama! And were you very frightened?" "You can imagine. And that is why
good little girls do not look into mirrors except when their mothers tell them. You must
stop this naughty habit, darling, of admiring yourself in every mirror you pass- or you
may see something frightful some day." "But the devil, Mama---what did he look like?"
"Well, let me see... he has curly hair and a scar on his cheek---" "Like the scar of Papa?"
"Well, yes. But this of the devil was a scar of sin, while that of your Papa is a scar of
honor. Or so he says." "Go on about the devil." "Well, he had mustaches." "Like those of
Papa?" "Oh, no. Those of your Papa are dirty and graying and smell horribly of tobacco,
while these of the devil were very black and elegant--oh, how elegant!" "And did he
speak to you, Mama?" "Yes… Yes, he spoke to me," said Dona Agueda. And bowing her
graying head; she wept.
"Charms like yours have no need for a candle, fair one," he had said, smiling at her in
the mirror and stepping back to give her a low mocking bow. She had whirled around
and glared at him and he had burst into laughter. "But I remember you!" he cried. "You
are Agueda, whom I left a mere infant and came home to find a tremendous beauty,
and I danced a waltz with you but you would not give me the polka." "Let me pass," she
muttered fiercely, for he was barring the way. "But I want to dance the polka with you,
fair one," he said. So they stood before the mirror; their panting breath the only sound
in the dark room; the candle shining between them and flinging their shadows to the
wall. And young Badoy Montiya (who had crept home very drunk to pass out quietly in
bed) suddenly found himself cold sober and very much awake and ready for anything.
His eyes sparkled and the scar on his face gleamed scarlet. "Let me pass!" she cried
again, in a voice of fury, but he grasped her by the wrist. "No," he smiled. "Not until we
have danced." "Go to the devil!" "What a temper has my serrana!" "I am not your
serrana!" "Whose, then? Someone I know? Someone I have offended grievously?
Because you treat me, you treat all my friends like your mortal enemies." "And why
not?" she demanded, jerking her wrist away and flashing her teeth in his face. "Oh, how
I detest you, you pompous young men! You go to Europe and you come back elegant
lords and we poor girls are too tame to please you. We have no grace like the
Parisiennes, we have no fire like the Sevillians, and we have no salt, no salt, no salt! Aie,
how you weary me, how you bore me, you fastidious men!" "Come, come---how do you
know about us?"
"I was not admiring myself, sir!" "You were admiring the moon perhaps?" "Oh!" she
gasped, and burst into tears. The candle dropped from her hand and she covered her
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face and sobbed piteously. The candle had gone out and they stood in darkness, and
young Badoy was conscience-stricken. "Oh, do not cry, little one!" Oh, please forgive
me! Please do not cry! But what a brute I am! I was drunk, little one, I was drunk and
knew not what I said." He groped and found her hand and touched it to his lips. She
shuddered in her white gown. "Let me go," she moaned, and tugged feebly. "No. Say
you forgive me first. Say you forgive me, Agueda." But instead she pulled his hand to
her mouth and bit it - bit so sharply in the knuckles that he cried with pain and lashed
cut with his other hand--lashed out and hit the air, for she was gone, she had fled, and
he heard the rustling of her skirts up the stairs as he furiously sucked his bleeding
fingers. Cruel thoughts raced through his head: he would go and tell his mother and
make her turn the savage girl out of the house--or he would go himself to the girl’s room
and drag her out of bed and slap, slap, slap her silly face! But at the same time he was
thinking that they were all going to Antipolo in the morning and was already planning
how he would maneuver himself into the same boat with her. Oh, he would have his
revenge, he would make her pay, that little harlot! She should suffer for this, he thought
greedily, licking his bleeding knuckles. But---Judas! He remembered her bare shoulders:
gold in her candlelight and delicately furred. He saw the mobile insolence of her neck,
and her taut breasts steady in the fluid gown. Son of a Turk, but she was quite
enchanting! How could she think she had no fire or grace? And no salt? An arroba she
had of it!
"... No lack of salt in the chrism At the moment of thy baptism!" He sang aloud in the
dark room and suddenly realized that he had fallen madly in love with her. He ached
intensely to see her again---at once! ---to touch her hands and her hair; to hear her
harsh voice. He ran to the window and flung open the casements and the beauty of the
night struck him back like a blow. It was May, it was summer, and he was young---
young! ---and deliriously in love. Such a happiness welled up within him that the tears
spurted from his eyes. But he did not forgive her--no! He would still make her pay, he
would still have his revenge, he thought viciously, and kissed his wounded fingers. But
what a night it had been! "I will never forge this night! he thought aloud in an awed
voice, standing by the window in the dark room, the tears in his eyes and the wind in his
hair and his bleeding knuckles pressed to his mouth.
But, alas, the heart forgets; the heart is distracted; and May time passes; summer lends;
the storms break over the rot-tipe orchards and the heart grows old; while the hours,
the days, the months, and the years pile up and pile up, till the mind becomes too
crowded, too confused: dust gathers in it; cobwebs multiply; the walls darken and fall
into ruin and decay; the memory perished...and there came a time when Don Badoy
Montiya walked home through a May Day midnight without remembering, without even
caring to remember; being merely concerned in feeling his way across the street with his
cane; his eyes having grown quite dim and his legs uncertain--for he was old; he was
over sixty; he was a very stopped and shivered old man with white hair and mustaches
coming home from a secret meeting of conspirators; his mind still resounding with the
speeches and his patriot heart still exultant as he picked his way up the steps to the
front door and inside into the slumbering darkness of the house; wholly unconscious of
the May night, till on his way down the hall, chancing to glance into the sala, he
shuddered, he stopped, his blood ran cold-- for he had seen a face in the mirror there---
a ghostly candlelight face with the eyes closed and the lips moving, a face that he
suddenly felt he had been there before though it was a full minutes before the lost
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memory came flowing, came tiding back, so overflooding the actual moment and so
swiftly washing away the piled hours and days and months and years that he was left
suddenly young again; he was a gay young buck again, lately came from Europe; he had
been dancing all night; he was very drunk; he s stepped in the doorway; he saw a face
in the dark; he called out...and the lad standing before the mirror (for it was a lad in a
night go jumped with fright and almost dropped his candle, but looking around and
seeing the old man, laughed out with relief and came running.
"Oh Grandpa, how you frightened me. Don Badoy had turned very pale. "So it was you,
you young bandit! And what is all this, hey? What are you doing down here at this
hour?" "Nothing, Grandpa. I was only... I am only ..." "Yes, you are the great Señor only
and how delighted I am to make your acquaintance, Señor Only! But if I break this cane
on your head you maga wish you were someone else, Sir!" "It was just foolishness,
Grandpa. They told me I would see my wife."
"Wife? What wife?" "Mine. The boys at school said I would see her if I looked in a mirror
tonight and said: Mirror, mirror show to me her whose lover I will be.
Don Badoy cackled ruefully. He took the boy by the hair, pulled him along into the room,
sat down on a chair, and drew the boy between his knees. "Now, put your cane down
the floor, son, and let us talk this over. So you want your wife already, hey? You want to
see her in advance, hey? But so you know that these are wicked games and that wicked
boys who play them are in danger of seeing horrors?"
"Well, the boys did warn me I might see a witch instead."
"Exactly! A witch so horrible you may die of fright. And she will be witch you, she will
torture you, she will eat
your heart and drink your blood!"
"Oh, come now Grandpa. This is 1890. There are no witches anymore."
"Oh-ho, my young Voltaire! And what if I tell you that I myself have seen a witch.
"You? Where?
"Right in this room land right in that mirror," said the old man, and his playful voice had
turned savage.
"When, Grandpa?"
"Not so long ago. When I was a bit older than you. Oh, I was a vain fellow and though I
was feeling very sick that night and merely wanted to lie down somewhere and die I
could not pass that doorway of course without stopping to see in the mirror what I
looked like when dying. But when I poked my head in what should I see in the mirror
but...but..."
"The witch?"
"Exactly!"
"And then she bewitch you, Grandpa!"
"She bewitched me and she tortured me. l She ate my heart and drank my blood." said
the old man bitterly.
"Oh, my poor little Grandpa! Why have you never told me! And she very horrible?
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"Horrible? God, no--- she was the most beautiful creature I have ever seen! Her eyes
were somewhat like yours but her hair was like black waters and her golden shoulders
were bare. My God, she was enchanting! But I should have known---I should have
known even then---the dark and fatal creature she was!"
A silence. Then: "What a horrid mirror this is, Grandpa," whispered the boy.
"What makes you slay that, hey?"
"Well, you saw this witch in it. And Mama once told me that Grandma once told her that
Grandma once saw the devil in this mirror. Was it of the scare that Grandma died?"
Don Badoy started. For a moment he had forgotten that she was dead, that she had
perished---the poor Agueda; that they were at peace at last, the two of them, her tired
body at rest; her broken body set free at last from the brutal pranks of the earth---from
the trap of a May night; from the snare of summer; from the terrible silver nets of the
moon. She had been a mere heap of white hair and bones in the end: a whimpering
withered consumptive, lashing out with her cruel tongue; her eye like live coals; her face
like ashes... Now, nothing--- nothing save a name on a stone; save a stone in a
graveyard---nothing! was left of the young girl who had flamed so vividly in a mirror one
wild May Day midnight, long, long ago.
And remembering how she had sobbed so piteously; remembering how she had bitten
his hand and fled and how he had sung aloud in the dark room and surprised his heart
in the instant of falling in love: such a grief tore up his throat and eyes that he felt
ashamed before the boy; pushed the boy away; stood up and looked out----looked out
upon the medieval shadows of the foul street where a couple of street-lamps flickered
and a last carriage was rattling away upon the cobbles, while the blind black houses
muttered hush-hush, their tiled roofs looming like sinister chessboards against a wild sky
murky with clouds, save where an evil old moon prowled about in a corner or where a
murderous wind whirled, whistling and whining, smelling now of the sea and now of the
summer orchards and wafting unbearable the window; the bowed old man sobbing so
bitterly at the window; the tears streaming down his cheeks and the wind in his hair and
one hand pressed to his mouth---while from up the street came the clackety-clack of the
watchman’s boots on the cobbles, and the clang-clang of his lantern against his knee,
and the mighty roll of his voice booming through the night:
"Guardia sereno-o-o! A las doce han dado-o-o!"
Wedding Dance by Amador Daguio
Awiyao reached for the upper horizontal log which served as the edge of the headhigh
threshold. Clinging to the log, he lifted himself with one bound that carried him across
to the narrow door. He slid back the cover, stepped inside, then pushed the cover back
in place. After some moments during which he seemed to wait, he talked to the listening
darkness.
"I'm sorry this had to be done. I am really sorry. But neither of us can help it."
The sound of the gangsas beat through the walls of the dark house like muffled roars of
falling waters. The woman who had moved with a start when the sliding door opened
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had been hearing the gangsas for she did not know how long. There was a sudden rush
of fire in her. She gave no sign that she heard Awiyao, but continued to sit unmoving in
the darkness.
But Awiyao knew that she heard him and his heart pitied her. He crawled on all fours to
the middle of the room; he knew exactly where the stove was. With bare fingers he
stirred the covered smoldering embers, and blew into the stove. When the coals began
to glow, Awiyao put pieces of pine on them, then full round logs as his arms. The room
brightened.
"Why don't you go out," he said, "and join the dancing women?" He felt a pang inside
him, because what he said was really not the right thing to say and because the woman
did not stir. "You should join the dancers," he said, "as if--as if nothing had happened."
He looked at the woman huddled in a corner of the room, leaning against the wall. The
stove fire played with strange moving shadows and lights
upon her face. She was partly sullen, but her sullenness was not because of anger or
hate.
"Go out--go out and dance. If you really don't hate me for this separation, go out and
dance. One of the men will see you dance well; he will like your dancing, he will marry
you. Who knows but that, with him, you will be luckier than you were with me."
"I don't want any man," she said sharply. "I don't want any other man."
He felt relieved that at least she talked: "You know very well that I won't want any other
woman either. You know that, don't you? Lumnay, you know it, don't you?"
She did not answer him.
"You know it Lumnay, don't you?" he repeated.
"Yes, I know," she said weakly.
"It is not my fault," he said, feeling relieved. "You cannot blame me; I have been a good
husband to you."
"Neither can you blame me," she said. She seemed about to cry.
"No, you have been very good to me. You have been a good wife. I have nothing to say
against you." He set some of the burning wood in place. "It's only that a man must have
a child. Seven harvests is just too long to wait. Yes, we have waited too long. We should
have another chance before it is too late for both of us."
This time the woman stirred, stretched her right leg out and bent her left leg in. She
wound the blanket more snugly around herself.
"You know that I have done my best," she said. "I have prayed to Kabunyan much. I
have sacrificed many chickens in my prayers."
"Yes, I know."
"You remember how angry you were once when you came home from your work in the
terrace because I butchered one of our pigs without your permission? I did it to appease
Kabunyan, because, like you, I wanted to have a child. But what could I do?"
"Kabunyan does not see fit for us to have a child," he said. He stirred the fire. The spark
rose through the crackles of the flames. The smoke and soot went up the ceiling.
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Lumnay looked down and unconsciously started to pull at the rattan that kept the split
bamboo flooring in place. She tugged at the rattan flooring. Each time she did this the
split bamboo went up and came down with a slight rattle. The gong of the dancers
clamorously called in her care through the walls.
Awiyao went to the corner where Lumnay sat, paused before her, looked at her bronzed
and sturdy face, then turned to where the jars of water stood piled one over the other.
Awiyao took a coconut cup and dipped it in the top jar and drank. Lumnay had filled the
jars from the mountain creek early that evening.
"I came home," he said. "Because I did not find you among the dancers. Of course, I am
not forcing you to come, if you don't want to join my wedding ceremony. I came to tell
you that Madulimay, although I am marrying her, can never become as good as you are.
She is not as strong in planting beans, not as fast in cleaning water jars, not as good
keeping a house clean. You are one of the best wives in the
whole village."
"That has not done me any good, has it?" She said. She looked at him lovingly. She
almost seemed to smile.
He put the coconut cup aside on the floor and came closer to her. He held her face
between his hands and looked longingly at her beauty. But her eyes looked away. Never
again would he hold her face. The next day she would not be his any more. She would
go back to her parents. He let go of her face, and she bent to the floor again and looked
at her fingers as they tugged softly at the split bamboo floor.
"This house is yours," he said. "I built it for you. Make it your own, live in it as long as
you wish. I will build another house for Madulimay."
"I have no need for a house," she said slowly. "I'll go to my own house. My parents are
old. They will need help in the planting of the beans, in the pounding of the rice."
"I will give you the field that I dug out of the mountains during the first year of our
marriage," he said. "You know I did it for you. You helped me to make it for the two of
us."
"I have no use for any field," she said.
He looked at her, then turned away, and became silent. They were silent for a time.
"Go back to the dance," she said finally. "It is not right for you to be here. They will
wonder where you are, and Madulimay will not feel good. Go back to the dance."
"I would feel better if you could come, and dance---for the last time. The gangsas are
playing."
"You know that I cannot."
"Lumnay," he said tenderly. "Lumnay, if I did this it is because of my need for a child.
You know that life is not worth living without a child. The man have mocked me behind
my back. You know that."
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"I know it," he said. "I will pray that Kabunyan will bless you and Madulimay."
She bit her lips now, then shook her head wildly, and sobbed.
She thought of the seven harvests that had passed, the high hopes they had in the
beginning of their new life, the day he took her away from her parents across the
roaring river, on the other side of the mountain, the trip up the trail which they had to
climb, the steep canyon which they had to cross. The waters boiled in her mind in forms
of white and jade and roaring silver; the waters tolled and growled,
resounded in thunderous echoes through the walls of the stiff cliffs; they were far away
now from somewhere on the tops of the other ranges, and they had looked carefully at
the buttresses of rocks they had to step on---a slip would have meant death.
They both drank of the water then rested on the other bank before they made the final
climb to the other side of the mountain.
She looked at his face with the fire playing upon his features---hard and strong, and
kind. He had a sense of lightness in his way of saying things which often made her and
the village people laugh. How proud she had been of his humor. The muscles where taut
and firm, bronze and compact in their hold upon his skull---how frank his bright eyes
were. She looked at his body the carved out of the mountains
five fields for her; his wide and supple torso heaved as if a slab of shining lumber were
heaving; his arms and legs flowed down in fluent muscles--he was strong and for that
she had lost him.
She flung herself upon his knees and clung to them. "Awiyao, Awiyao, my husband," she
cried. "I did everything to have a child," she said passionately in a hoarse whisper. "Look
at me," she cried. "Look at my body. Then it was full of promise. It could dance; it could
work fast in the fields; it could climb the mountains fast. Even now it is firm, full. But,
Awiyao, I am useless. I must die."
"It will not be right to die," he said, gathering her in his arms. Her whole warm naked
naked breast quivered against his own; she clung now to his neck, and her hand lay
upon his right shoulder; her hair flowed down in cascades of gleaming darkness.
"I don't care about the fields," she said. "I don't care about the house. I don't care for
anything but you. I'll have no other man."
"Then you'll always be fruitless."
"I'll go back to my father, I'll die."
"Then you hate me," he said. "If you die it means you hate me. You do not want me to
have a child. You do not want my name to live on in our tribe."
She was silent.
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"If I do not try a second time," he explained, "it means I'll die. Nobody will get the fields
I have carved out of the mountains; nobody will come after me."
"If you fail--if you fail this second time--" she said thoughtfully. The voice was a
shudder. "No--no, I don't want you to fail."
"If I fail," he said, "I'll come back to you. Then both of us will die together. Both of us
will vanish from the life of our tribe."
The gongs thundered through the walls of their house, sonorous and faraway.
"I'll keep my beads," she said. "Awiyao, let me keep my beads," she half-whispered.
"You will keep the beads. They come from far-off times. My grandmother said they come
from up North, from the slant-eyed people across the sea. You keep them, Lumnay.
They are worth twenty fields."
"I'll keep them because they stand for the love you have for me," she said. "I love you. I
love you and have nothing to give."
She took herself away from him, for a voice was calling out to him from outside.
"Awiyao! Awiyao! O Awiyao! They are looking for you at the dance!"
"I am not in hurry."
"The elders will scold you. You had better go."
"Not until you tell me that it is all right with you."
"It is all right with me."
He clasped her hands. "I do this for the sake of the tribe," he said.
"I know," she said.
He went to the door.
"Awiyao!"
He stopped as if suddenly hit by a spear. In pain he turned to her. Her face was in
agony. It pained him to leave. She had been wonderful to him. What was it that made a
man wish for a child? What was it in life, in the work in the field, in the planting and
harvest, in the silence of the night, in the communing with husband and wife, in the
whole life of the tribe itself that made man wish for the laughter and speech of a child?
Suppose he changed his mind? Why did the unwritten law demand, anyway, that a man,
to be a man, must have a child to come after him? And if he was fruitless--but he loved
Lumnay. It was like taking away of his life to leave her like this.
98
"Awiyao," she said, and her eyes seemed to smile in the light. "The beads!" He turned
back and walked to the farthest corner of their room, to the trunk where they kept their
worldly possession---his battle-ax and his spear points, her betel nut box and her beads.
He dug out from the darkness the beads which had been given to him by his
grandmother to give to Lumnay on the beads on, and tied them in place. The white and
jade and deep orange obsidians shone in the firelight. She suddenly clung to him, clung
to his neck as if she would never let him go.
"Awiyao! Awiyao, it is hard!" She gasped, and she closed her eyes and huried her face in
his neck.
The call for him from the outside repeated; her grip loosened, and he buried out into the
night.
Lumnay sat for some time in the darkness. Then she went to the door and opened it.
The moonlight struck her face; the moonlight spilled itself on the whole village.
She could hear the throbbing of the gangsas coming to her through the caverns of the
other houses. She knew that all the houses were empty that the whole tribe was at the
dance. Only she was absent. And yet was she not the best dancer of the village? Did she
not have the most lightness and grace? Could she not, alone among all women, dance
like a bird tripping for grains on the ground, beautifully
timed to the beat of the gangsas? Did not the men praise her supple body, and the
women envy the way she stretched her hands like the wings of the mountain eagle now
and then as she danced? How long ago did she dance at her own wedding? Tonight, all
the women who counted, who once danced in her honor, were dancing now in honor of
another whose only claim was that perhaps she could give her
husband a child.
"It is not right. It is not right!" she cried. "How does she know? How can anybody know?
It is not right," she said.
Suddenly she found courage. She would go to the dance. She would go to the chief of
the village, to the elders, to tell them it was not right. Awiyao was hers; nobody could
take him away from her. Let her be the first woman to complain, to denounce the
unwritten rule that a man may take another woman. She would tell Awiyao to come
back to her. He surely would relent. Was not their love as strong as the
river?
She made for the other side of the village where the dancing was. There was a flaming
glow over the whole place; a great bonfire was burning. The gangsas clamored more
loudly now, and it seemed they were calling to her. She was near at last. She could see
the dancers clearly now. The man leaped lightly with their gangsas as they circled the
dancing women decked in feast garments and beads, tripping on the ground like
graceful birds, following their men. Her heart warmed to the flaming call of the dance;
strange heat in her blood welled up, and she started to run. But the gleaming brightness
of the bonfire commanded her to stop. Did anybody see her approach?
She stopped. What if somebody had seen her coming? The flames of the bonfire leaped
99
in countless sparks which spread and rose like yellow points and died out in the night.
The blaze reached out to her like a spreading radiance. She did not have the courage to
break into the wedding feast.
Lumnay walked away from the dancing ground, away from the village. She thought of
the new clearing of beans which Awiyao and she had started to make only four moons
before. She followed the trail above the village.
When she came to the mountain stream she crossed it carefully. Nobody held her hand,
and the stream water was very cold. The trail went up again, and she was in the
moonlight shadows among the trees and shrubs. Slowly she climbed the mountain.
When Lumnay reached the clearing, she cold see from where she stood the blazing
bonfire at the edge of the village, where the wedding was. She could hear the far-off
clamor of the gongs, still rich in their sonorousness, echoing from mountain to mountain.
The sound did not mock her; they seemed to call far to her, to speak to her in the
language of unspeaking love. She felt the pull of their gratitude for her
sacrifice. Her heartbeat began to sound to her like many gangsas.
Lumnay though of Awiyao as the Awiyao she had known long ago-- a strong, muscular
boy carrying his heavy loads of fuel logs down the mountains to his home. She had met
him one day as she was on her way to fill her clay jars with water. He had stopped at
the spring to drink and rest; and she had made him drink the cool mountain water from
her coconut shell. After that it did not take him long to decide to throw his spear on the
stairs of her father's house in token on his desire to marry her.
The mountain clearing was cold in the freezing moonlight. The wind began to stir the
leaves of the bean plants. Lumnay looked for a big rock on which to sit down. The bean
plants now surrounded her, and she was lost among them.
A few more weeks, a few more months, a few more harvests---what did it matter? She
would be holding the bean flowers, soft in the texture, silken almost, but moist where
the dew got into them, silver to look at, silver on the light blue, blooming whiteness,
when the morning comes. The stretching of the bean pods full length from the hearts of
the wilting petals would go on.
Lumnay's fingers moved a long, long time among the growing bean pods.
Points for Discussion
1. Who are the characters in the story? What type of characters are they? How
would you characterize them?
2. What is the subject of the story?
3. What is the conflict of the story?
4. What do you think is the driving force that moves each story to go forward?
5. What story/ies do you find personallyappealing? Why?
6. What is/are the overall theme/s ofeach story?
100
Set Task 1
Summary
Write a three-paragraph summary of all the stories you read. Bear in mind to
focus on the following questions: 1) Who are the characters? 2) What is the plot? 3)
The message conveyed? Compile your write-ups and fasten them in one portfolio.
Set Task 2
Comic strips
Look for a scene in one of the stories that interestingly captures your
imagination. Then illustrate the story by drawing a comic strip with callouts and
cartoon characters drawn out from the story.
Assessment
1. What human weaknesses do the each story reveal to us?

2. If you would give a sequel to the stories, how would it go?
3. Which story/ies is/are relevant to our times? Why?
4. What are the common human qualities of the characters in the stories and how
do they help us understand humanity as a whole?
Reflections
In your reflection journal, write the new insights you learned from Unit 2
1. . . . on the values of the Filipinos as revealed by the stories

2. . . . on the writing style of the author, diction and craft
3. . . . on certain elements of the stories.
101
References
Ang, Jaime G. (2009). Kritika: Selected readings in Philippine Literature from Pre-
Colonial tobvPost-EDSA. Intramuros, Manila: Mindshapers Co. Inc.
Cooper, J.J. (1992). Brewer’s Book of Myth and Legend. Great Britain: Cassell Publishers
Croghan, R.(1978)The development of Philippine literature in English ( since
1900).Quezon City: Phoenix Publishing House.
Dones, M G. (2009). Philippine Literature. A Student Guide. Intramuros, Manila:
Mindshapers co. Inc.
Hamilton, E. (1969). Mythology.Timeless Tales of Gods and Heroes. U.S.A. Mentor Books
Holt, Rinehart & Winston, Elements of Literature:World Literature (pages 101-330)
Kahayon, A. and Zulueta.,C (2000). Philippine literature through the
years.Mandaluyong City: National Book Store
Rosenberg, Donna, Folklore, Myths, and Legends: A world Perspective
Tan, A.B. (1991) Introduction to Literature. Metro Manila: National Bookstore, Inc.
Vinuya, R. & Geron, C. (2011). Philippine literature: A statement of ourselves. Pateros,
Metro Manila: Grandbooks Publishing, Inc..
Watkinson, P. (1990). Illustrated Encyclopedia of Mythology Around the World
Internet Sources
https://www.pdfdrive.com/philippine-literature-philippine-culture-d5139869.html
102

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A Module in LIT 202 – A SURVEY OF PHILIPPINE LITERATURE IN ENGLISH ● 2021

Asst. Prof. Joshua B. Tupas

Unit I INTRODUCTION TO LITERATURE

At the end of the unit, you must have:

1. identified and discussed substantially the functions of literature;

1.1 Functions of Literature

First of all, it is the communication between

Shaping the aesthetic taste

Literature helps us to develop ourselves. Thanks to books, articles, magazines, we have

Development of thought process

Shaping the speech

1.2 The Different Time Frames in Philippine Literature in English

1. The Period of Re-orientation: 1898-1910

1.3 Types of Literature that flourished during the different

1. The Bible or the Sacred Writings

There are many types of prose. These include the following:

1. Epic. This is an extended narrative about heroic exploits often under

2. Metrical Tale. This is a narrative which is written in verse and can be

3. Ballads. Of the narrative poems, this is considered the shortest and

1. Folksongs (Awiting Bayan). These are short poems intended to be sung.

2. Sonnets. This is a lyric poem of 14 lines dealing with an emotion, a feeling,

4. Ode. This is a poem of a noble feeling, expressed with dignity, with no

6. Awit (Song). These have measures of twelve syllables (dodecasyllabic) and

7. Corridos (Kuridos). These have measures of eight syllables (octosyllabic)

4. Farce. This is an exaggerated comedy. It seeks to arouse mirth by

The Pre-Spanish Period

1. Epigrams (Salawikain). These have been customarily used and served

The Spanish Period (1565-1898)

A. SPANISH INFLUENCES ON PHILIPPINE LITERATURE

B. THE FIRST BOOKS

This is a poetic vehicle of a socio-religious nature celebrated during the death of a

J. THE DUNG-AW. This is a chant in free verse by a bereaved person or his

The Period of Enlightenment (1872-1898)

A. The Propaganda Movement (1872-1896)

B. Highlights of the Propaganda Movement

DR. JOSE P. RIZAL

MARCELO H. DEL PILAR

Upon his arrival in Spain, he replaced Graciano Lopez Jaena as editor of LA

1. PAGIBIG SA TINUBUANG LUPA (Love of Country). Translated from the Spanish

3. DASALAN AT TOCSOHAN (Prayers and Jokes). Similar to a cathecism but

From Valencia, he moved to Barcelona where he established the first magazine LA

GRACIANO LOPEZ JAENA

1. NOCHE BUENA (Christmas Eve). It pictured true Filipino life.

2. SE DEVIERTEN (How They Diverted Themselves). A dig at a dance of the

Mariano Ponce became an editor-in-chief, biographer and researcher of the Propaganda

1. MGA ALAMAT NG BULACAN (Legend of Bulacan). Contains legends, and folklores

1. NINAY. The first social novel in Spanish by a Filipino.

JOSE MA. PANGANIBAN

1. ANG LUPANG TINUBUAN (My Native Land)

C. Period of Active Revolution (1896-1898)

D. Highlights of the Active Revolution

1. KARTILYA NG KATIPUNAN (A primer book on the Katipunan)

1. EL VERDADERO DECALOGO (The True Decalogue or Ten Commandments). This

1. MELANCOLIAS (Melancholies). A collection of his poems.

NEWSPAPERS DURING THE REVOLUTION

1. HERALDO DE LA REVOLUCION. Printed the decrees of the Revolutiary

The American Regime (1898-1941)

1. KAHAPON, NGAYON AT BUKAS (Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow). Written by

A. Characteristics of Literature during this Period

FERNANDO MA. GUERRERO

Other Writers in Spanish are:

FLORANTE AT LAURA of Francisco Balagtas and URBANA AT FELISA of Modesto de

3. Poets of the Stage (Makata ng Tanghalan). Led by Aurelio Tolentino, Patricio