5 wounds, ca. 2018

"Where are Asia's Nobel Prize-winners?", asked the Filipino novelist N.V.M. Gonzalez in 1985. A prelude to his thoughts on "what literary prizes are for".

To Robert Frost the test of time is irrelevant. There is, in Frost's view, an "immortal wound" that is inflicted upon us by a good poem. He must have had the novel also in mind. Frost said this much, in a single-minded stand against being carried away by much-publicised literary trends.

Given the right circumstances, Gonzalez believed that prize-giving can be reminders that we might become "some writer's right kind of reader, soon to be 'hurt', to be 'immortally wounded – and ever grateful". But he eventually discarded his idea about prize-giving since "the Nobel committee misses the mark on occasion" because "to begin with, it doesn't, or can't, for some reason or other, collectively get 'wounded'".

Surely, the problem of accessing the novels in a language the gatekeepers understand is a key consideration for being considered for the prize.

The keepers of the garden gate would perhaps do well to remember that it would be unfair to quibble over whether certain credentials of entry, if in their original, are available in agreeable translations. Something truly substantial should be the basis for consideration [for the Nobel Prize].

Whatever that "something truly substantial" is, it could not be discovered unless one understands the letters on the page. Consider Kawabata Yasunari:

Kawabata appeared on the list of candidates for the first time in 1961.

But at that time, the translation of his works into foreign languages was limited to “Thousand Cranes,” which was released in serial form from 1949, and “Snow Country,” the novel that was published in serials between 1935 and 1947 and cemented his status as a leading author in the Japanese literary world.

The academy did not award the prize to Kawabata [from 1961 to 1967] as it deemed that it “cannot accurately evaluate his accomplishments due to a paucity of available translations of his novels.” [from: The Asahi Shimbum, via the complete review]

All of which brings me to the exemplary books I read during the previous year. All Asian works (from the Philippines and Japan), written by mostly dead (except for one) novelists.

They are fictional works that have impacted me by "wounding" me, the way Frost would never get over a good poem, and perhaps akin to how Kafka was stabbed and wounded, in his oft-quoted violent axing of the inner frozen sea.

1. The Locked Door and Other Stories (2017) by Rosario de Guzman Lingat, translated from Tagalog by Soledad S. Reyes (review)

Like her novels, Lingat's short stories were products of a discerning imagination. In this collection, her female protagonists navigate a social, economic, and cultural landscape inhospitable to women's desires and ambitions. But they resisted and persisted. These narratives were conflict-ridden, oftentimes reflecting the social unrest simmering in the background. They contained motifs and images that stirred the already troubled atmosphere. 

2. Territory of Light (2018) by Yūko Tsushima, translated from the Japanese by Geraldine Harcourt (review)

Tsushima would have been a very worthy Nobel laureate from Japan. In Territory of Light, the play of light and shadows was palpable, providing succor to a female character faced with domestic and societal pressures. The well-controlled mood, the nuance of feelings,

3. Driftwood on Dry Land (2013) by T.S. Sungkit Jr., translated from Cebuano by T.S. Sungkit Jr. (review)

This epic novel, influenced a lot by the oral tradition, straddles between two kinds of time: mythic time and historical time. But its ingenuity is in relying much on the former, making it similar to the style and content of folk tales like "the epic and the bayok". According to Resil Mojares, these narratives "are constructed out of a repetitive, limited set of verbal formulas and units of action, which is what allows the poem to be spontaneously composed, extemporized, as it is performed. In the epic Mindanao bayok, the language is highly figurative, elliptical, and improvisatory. Typically the action take place in mythic (rather than historical) time and construes place, person, and action differently from modern narratives". By his creative combination of both mythic and historical times, Sungkit provided density (history) to an otherwise light (mythic) narrative and produced a hybrid text characterized by its close attention to the dispossessed people, and hence the celebration of a marginal, off-center literary-historical tradition.

4. The Cry and the Dedication (1995) by Carlos Bulosan

If we go by hurt and feels, then this posthumously published (unfinished) novel was certainly wounding. Flawed, sometimes erratically written, it conjured character personas for the author who could be considered spiritually exiled in America. It was not something I enjoyed reading but something I couldn't get out of my mind. Its Dantesque approach (going to the underground and experiencing various circles of hell) might be sloppy and contrived but the "hurtful" ideas it generates on nationalism, revolution, and the aesthetics of resistance are worth pondering.

5. Ilaw sa Hilaga (Northern Light) (1997) by Lázaro Francisco (review) 

A unique form of socioeconomic novel, if there was one, complete with analysis (in microcosm) of competition, trade, and foreign investment and its impact on local (rural) development. The specter of collective suicidal tendencies was satirized here, one wherein the elite of society ran headlong toward its self-demise due to being seduced by colonial mentality of Filipinos during the early decades of American occupation. A translation of the novel is underway.


Note: Quotations from N.V.M. Gonzalez were from “Among the Wounded”, in The Novel of Justice: Selected Essays 1968-1994 (National Commission for Culture and the Arts, 1996). Words of Resil Mojares were from “In Search of Lapulapu: A Critical Introduction”, in Lapulapu: The Conqueror of Magellan, a novel by Vicente Gullas, translated by Erlinda K. Alburo (University of San Carlos Press, 2018).

Reading in 2018

I managed to read 25 books this year, which is a slight improvement from the previous. Not surprisingly, I tended to focus on Filipiniana books.

I've also been catching up with writing blog posts in the last few days though overall the whole year had been inconsistent in terms of posting. Yet I still never felt the need to pause or make this space go dormant in the near future.

My best book of the year was Thomas Bernhard's collected memoirs, Gathering Evidence, which I classify as fiction here just because I want to consider it as such. It was actually a reread so I decided I will not include it anymore in my round up of my best reads in a separate post. Bernhard's memoirs is a cornerstone of my reading life, and it was wonderful to be reacquainted again with his black humor.


FICTION

Gathering Evidence by Thomas Bernhard, translated from German by David McLintock (reviews)

The Locked Door and Other Stories by Rosario de Guzman Lingat, translated from Tagalog by Soledad S. Reyes (review)

Of Dogs and Walls by Yūko Tsushima, translated from Japanese by Geraldine Harcourt

Apdo ng Kalungkutan (Bile of Loneliness) by Angel L. Enemecio, translated from Cebuano to Filipino by Jennifer Nadela Inez

Territory of Light by Yūko Tsushima, translated from Japanese by Geraldine Harcourt (review)

Halina sa Ating Bukas (Welcome to Our Tomorrow) by Macario Pineda

Isang Milyong Piso (One Million Pesos) by Macario Pineda

Driftwood on Dry Land by T.S. Sungkit Jr., translated from Cebuano by T.S. Sungkit Jr. (review)

The Star of Panghulo by Patricio Mariano, translated from Tagalog by Soledad S. Reyes (review)

Memoirs of Hadrian by Marguerite Yourcenar, translated from the French by Grace Frick in collaboration with Marguerite Yourcenar

Mga Patay na Bituin (Dead Stars) by Paz Marquez-Benitez, translated from English to Filipino by Virgilio S. Almario

Halimuyak ng Mansanas (Scent of Apples) by Bienvenido N. Santos, translated from English to Filipino by Michael M. Coroza

Kung Ipaghiganti ang Puso (If the Heart Is Avenged) by Deogracias A. Rosario

Ang Beterano (The Veteran) by Lázaro Francisco

Beijing Comrades by Bei Tong, translated from Chinese by Scott E. Myers

Bahay ni Marta (House of Marta) by Ricky Lee

The Cry and the Dedication by Carlos Bulosan

Ilaw sa Hilaga (Northern Light) by Lázaro Francisco (review)


POETRY / POETRY AND PROSE

Jaime Gil de Biedma in the Philippines: Prose and Poetry by Jaime Gil de Biedma, translated from Spanish by Alice Sun-Cua, José Mª Fons Guardiola, and Wystan de la Peña (review)

Dancing Embers by Sándor Kányádi, translated from the Hungarian by Paul Sohar

La India Elegante y El Negrito Amante at Ilang Maikling Tula (La India Elegante y El Negrito Amante and Some Short Poems) by Francisco Balagtas


PLAY

Bedtime Stories: Mga Dula sa Relasyong Sexual (Plays on Sexual Relationships) by Rene O. Villanueva


NON-FICTION / MANIFESTO

Food Rules: An Eater's Manual by Michael Pollan

Under Three Flags: Anarchism and the Anti-Colonial Imagination by Benedict Anderson

Mga Rebolusyonaryong Dekalogo (Revolutionary Decalogues) by Andres Bonifacio, Gregoria De Jesus, Apolinario Mabini, and Emilio Jacinto

   
     

       
         

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

 
 

     

     

Patricio Mariano's romantic upheavals

The Star of Panghulo by Patricio Mariano, translated from Tagalog by Soledad S. Reyes (Ateneo de Naga University Press, 2018)

The Star of Panghulo, the translation of a 1913 novel by Patricio Mariano (1877-1935), was not the best book I read this year. It was a minor novel, but it certainly graced the best book cover I encountered this year. For a synopsis of the novel, I don't think I could improve upon what's in the Wikipedia page of the novel. It's a tale of contrasts: two women, two men, two love affairs.

Here we have Soledad S. Reyes doing the translation once again. This was her sixth translated novel from the Philippines since Macario Pineda's The Gold in Makiling in 2012, making her the record holder for the most prolific novel translator in the country.

I could not fault Soledad S. Reyes for which author she translates next. Other than her curation of Rosario de Guzman Lingat's novels and stories, the rest of the writers she translated were male. She seemed to be interested in how Filipino male writers of the first half of the 20th century portrayed women in their fiction. Hence, the novel (and several stories) of Macario Pineda, and then The Golden Dagger by Antonio G. Sempio, and then this novel. The latter two novels were hardly radical in their approach to the novel.

It would have been ideal if Reyes translated the works of better Tagalog novelists instead. For example, other novels by Macario Pineda, or those of Lázaro Francisco. Better yet, she could always select for her translation project the works of other women writers themselves. And why not take a look at the works of some excellent contemporary writers? I could not fault the translator for her chosen project, but how I wish she took some risks.

In any case, the novel in question, set in 1872, provided ample details about life in rural areas in the vicinity of Manila. The translator likely captured the cadence and richness of the Tagalog language in those days.

—Oh, what a terrible fate befalls a poor man,—Pedro interjected, appearing to mumble the words to himself. —Had I been a man of means, your father's violent objection to our love would not have reared its ugly head; and perhaps your parent would not have vilified my honor because of their desire to acquire tons of silver in exchange for your beauty ...

Since the quality of Tagalog as language had evolved between 1913 and 2018, Reyes was attuned to the register of the old Tagalog which must have proved to be slippery when it comes to rendering it in the English. The translator's project was clearly aimed at characterizing portrayal of women in a society steeped in patriarchy, class conflicts, and tradition. It was an era that idealized beauty of the fair sex.

Lucia was like the flower called alexandria, newly sprung in bloom; a flower grown in the country, a Filipina in whose veins flowed Spanish blood because one of her ancestors was the son of a Spaniard; Berta was the bud of sampagita, a flower native to the country, the flower inducing passion among the modest, delicate hearts of the Filipino race, the flower that embodied the love of the best of Filipino womanhood.

The sentimental mannerisms and romantic notions were here in abundance. It idealized Berta, the "star of Panghulo", not only for her beauty but for her compassion and devotion for the poor. In spite of her poverty, "no one would dare mock or cast aspersion upon her, terrified as these potential character assassins were of the barrio folk's collective revenge". The barrio folk had put Berta on the pedestal for her hard work and charity for the poor.

In contrast to the meek and kind Berta, Lucia was portrayed as a liberal woman who was in a lonely relationship with an abusive husband. In those days, the woman's code was to endure being with her husband no matter what. Both Lucia and Berta were subject to the "traditional values" of self-abnegation, how women should behave in order to retain her honor. Lucia for not breaking up with her husband, Berta for not openly declaring her love for a man lest she be labeled as a loose woman.

—Please forgive me, my love,—Pedro said, after I had regained my consciousness. —Forgive me if, because of the deep emotional wound caused by your refusal to say anything yesterday to convince me of your love, I have caused this upheaval. I know the gravity of my sin, that is why I am laying my heart bare, this heart that has caused untold misery; slash it, for each drop of tear flowing from your eyes is my life itself. Here is my treacherous heart. Drain each ounce of its blood to wreak vengeance and so drive away some of your bitterness ...

The syrupy dialogues in the story would probably constitute its greatest novelty. While definitely a flawed novel through and through, The Star of Panghulo was a historical product of the times. At times the narrator displayed some playful, modernist tendencies, at times the characters proclaimed some feminist ideas, but always the narrative was true to the stereotypical conception of women, the premium given to traditional mores, and the abiding patriarchy that shaped human relationships in the novel's time period.

Dead souls

Ilaw sa Hilaga (Northern Light) by Lázaro Francisco (University of the Philippines Press, 1997)

CAPE BOJEADOR LIGHTHOUSE, ILOCOS NORTE (Wikipedia)

Mapalalo at mahumindig na nakatunghay sa malawak na Liwasan ng San Carlos, pangulong bayan ng lalawigang lalong kilala sa pamagat na "Bangan ng Sangkapuluan," ang malaki at magarang tahanan ni Don Alejandro Vargas. Yaon ay isang matanda ngunit maringal na pilas ng makalumang arkitektura na tila nagmamalaki sa mga kalapit na gusali at nagmamarangyang may pagpalibhasa sa mga dampang palasak sa maraming dako ng nasabing bayan.

Tall and full of itself, Don Alejandro Vargas’ huge and handsome house overlooked the wide Plaza of San Carlos, capital town of the province more known as the “Granary of the Islands.” It looked as though it came out of the yellowed pages of an old architectural tome, ancient but venerable, haughty among the nearby buildings, preening above the common shanties. [translated by Marne Kilates]

Lázaro Francisco's major novel, Ilaw sa Hilaga, demonstrated, in my opinion, another corrective to Nick Joaquín's assertion that the Tagalog novel was constrained with orality and unable to get past the idea that "Tagalog is not yet a written language." This novel was a solid edifice of prose that showed Tagalog writers were capable of artistry in their own language, whether resorting to the oral tradition or not, for the Tagalog novelist's prose was an indelible example of creative inquiry into subjects as lofty as the establishment of a national consciousness and the rejection of the colonial imagination. Francisco dared to challenge the "colonized mind", the prevailing colonial mentality among Filipinos during the early decades of American occupation.

Ilaw sa Hilaga had had a rather colorful publication history. It first appeared in 1931-32 as a serial novel in Alitaptap magazine—as novels in those times were consumed by the Filipino public in weekly installments—using a title that was hardly appealing: Bayang Nagpatiwakal (Suicide Country, or more literally, The Nation That Committed Suicide). An extract of the novel was also published in another periodical in 1932 under the title Ang Pagbabangon (The Awakening). In 1947-48 it was republished in Liwayway magazine, at that time the most popular weekly, under its current title Ilaw sa Hilaga. It was rewritten in 1977 and reissued in book form in 1980 and later in 1997.

The novel was a testing ground of Francisco's preoccupations found in his later novels, Maganda pa ang Daigdig (The World Is Wondrous Still, 1956) and Daluyong (Storm Surge, 1961). But the ideas here were already threshed out philosophical ideas on political economy, national identity, economic independence from colonial America and foreign investors, inequality of agrarian and commercial transactions, injustices from "cacique" landlords, and disruptive, guerrilla methods to "awaken" a nation on the brink of suicide. But more than establishing a position against the tyranny of "self-hate", the novel contained a plan of action to transcend the state of national stupor, to transform and reverse engineer a state of self-destruction and hopelessness.

At the center of the novel was the debate against foreign capital and control of the local economy of San Carlos, an emerging town north of the Philippines. Instead of supporting local products, native language, local writings, national costumes, and local businesses, the elite of San Carlos was blinded by the allure of all things foreign. Hence, it promoted the capital investment of foreigners and its exploitation of natural resources. The leading members of society even led the campaign to close down local businesses! Fresh from fighting two wars of conquest—the 1896 Philippine Revolution against Spain and the protracted defeat in the Philippine-American War—the citizens of San Carlos would rather give tribute and honor to outsiders than celebrate its own national war heroes.

In the midst of this conflict was the character of Javier Santos, a rich idealistic young man, the embodiment of the titular "northern light", the hope of the motherland that was a direct descendant of the characters created by José Rizal in his twin novels of Philippine revolution, Noli Me Tangere (1887) and El Filibusterismo (1891). Javier was an Ilustrado-like figure modeled from Rizal's double identities of Juan Crisostomo Ibarra and the mysterious figure of Simoun who fomented revolution and anarchy years before Joseph Conrad tackled terrorism and anarchy in The Secret Agent (1907).

As local businessman competing against foreign capital, Javier Santos fought and lost against the elite and aristocracia of San Carlos. He then reinvented and disguised himself as another person after setting fire to his own transport business and arranging for his false death. Just like Simoun—complete with dark spectacles—Javier Santos, the light of the north, became a vengeful blazing "fire" who will teach his people a painful lesson in economics and national pride. The symbol of "light in the north", the carrier of light—the modern Ilustrado figure, or the enlightened—was here heavily referenced as the light that would point the right direction for the lost seafarers, together with "Aurora Borealis", a manifesto or philosophical tract written by Maestro Tumas—a character borrowed from Rizal's philosopher Tasio. The manifesto supposedly detailed strategies on how to solve the seemingly impossible problems faced by a country dying of self-inflicted wound, a people lost in the sea of disillusions. Tasio who, along with an enlightened few, was probably the only rational one in a continent of mad citizens, would declare: "Oo, baliw ako, pagkat dito ang katinuan ay itinuturing na kabaliwan" (Yes, I am mad, because here sanity is considered madness)—A quote almost straight out of The Alienist by Machado de Assis: "I know nothing about science, but if so many men whom we considered sane are locked up as madmen, how do we know that the real madman is not the alienist himself?".

Beyond its affinities to the anarchic objectives of Rizal's El Filibusterismo, Francisco's "committed" literature did not just offer a diagnosis but also a cure. I hardly knew of any other Philippine "socioeconomic" novel that explicitly dealt with business tactics to overcome the competition, curtail the abuse of dominant economic position, and assert the moral imperative to combat foreign capitalism, which is here synonymous to imperialism. Javier Santos ala Simoun became the fiery instrument to overhaul the mindset of the people of San Carlos. His cruel provocations and wounding of the pride of the people catalyzed the"awakening" of the soul of the nation.

—Papaypayan natin ang apoy upang lalong maglagablab! Duduhagihin natin ang damdamin ng bayang ito upang maibunsod sa pagpapakagiting! Susugatan natin at papagduruguin and kaniyang kaluluwa hanggang sa matutuhan niyang gumawa ng isang himala tungo sa kaniyang ikaliligtas!

—We will fan the flames to stoke the raging fire! And we will humiliate the nation's pride to incite it to embrace nobility! We will wound and bloody its soul until it learned to perform a miracle that will deliver it to its own salvation! [my translation]

The anarchic and anticolonial sentiment displayed by this early novel—published when Lázaro Francisco was just 33 years old—was already at a grand scale and concentrated form, rivaling his later novels. Its treatment of economic competition was universal in appeal and would resonate with other nations fighting their own economic wars and invoking sovereignty and independence through nationalist economic policies. Necessary methods (novels) that would make it value self-preservation. That would illuminate and resurrect the dying soul of the nation.

* * *

The upcoming translation of the novel—as "Light in the North", its working title—would bear out the strong literary qualities of the novel. Marne Kilates, a well accomplished poet and translator, would bring out his version in English. Kilates was the prolific translator of several volumes of poetry, particularly the ones by Rio Alma (pen name of Virgilio Almario when writing poetry), before he branched out to translating book-length prose—producing fluid translations of Seven Mountains of the Imagination (2011), literary criticism by Virgilio Almario, and then Typewriter Altar (2016) by Luna Sicat Cleto. These two books owed a lot to the facility of Kilates, and if they are any indication, he would be able to spell out the cathartic flavor of the humor and irony in "Light in the North".

A background reading on Marne Kilates's translation of the first chapters of Francisco's novel can be found in "My Practice of Translation, or: The Vanishing, Relocation, and Transfiguration", download link here (see pages 3-5).

Rosario de Guzman Lingat's stories of women and desire

The Locked Door and Other Stories by Rosario de Guzman Lingat, translated from Tagalog by Soledad S. Reyes (Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2017)

For years translator Soledad S. Reyes had been curating the literary production of Rosario de Guzman Lingat (1924-1997): three novels translated into English, numerous essays on the writer, a critical biography, and critical editions of novels and anthologies of stories in Tagalog. Her latest contribution was a selection and translation of stories from Lingat's prodigious body of work. In her introduction to her translation, Reyes said that "the role played by the female protagonist" was her overriding criterion in assembling the anthology. At the height of her literary powers, Lingat was suddenly afflicted by the "Bartleby syndrome", a sickness of writers first described in Bartleby & Co. by Enrique Vila-Matas. She just stopped writing and became a full time housewife.

Lingat's career flowered in the 1960s and 1970s, but even at the height of her popularity, this lovely and highly accomplished woman remained shy and reticent, toiled hard at her stories in between chores as a mother and wife. Indeed, she had no room of her own into which she could withdraw to perfect her craft. Instead, she savored the few precious moments when, having done the cooking and the laundry and having tucked the children in bed, she could be by herself and lose herself in her inner world. She abruptly turned her back on her writing career when she felt that she was no longer getting the professional respect that she deserved.

Reyes's resuscitation of interest into the works of Lingat was commendable. In 2013 alone she came out with translations of three major novels of the writer: The Cloak of God, The Death of Summer, and What Now, Ricky? The present collection of 16 short stories was culled from two anthologies: Si Juan Beterano at Iba Pang Kuwento (1996) and Sa Bukangliwayway ng Isang Kalayaan at Iba Pang Kuwento (2003).

The female protagonists in The Locked Door and Other Stories were either harboring a secret or trying to uncover one. They were either victims of a crime or a witness to one. The stories began calmly but atmospherically, progressing in a silent arc, and terminating in an epiphany, a surprise revelation, or a cathartic ending. In "Estero", for example, a perfect setting was chosen to dramatize a woman's sexual awakening.

To get to their house, she had to cross a wooden bridge that spanned the foul-smelling estero, with its fetid, black, thick water swarming with mosquitoes and other ugly denizens skittering on the surface and plunging into the murky depth. She would cover her nose with a handkerchief as she passed the bridge, enough to bring on the rude catcalls and taunts from the good-for-nothing habitués who, like the mosquitoes and other slimy creatures inhabiting the estero, had entwined themselves around the edges and on the planks of the bridge.

That was such an efficient paragraph to start a story. The few words were not wasted in a story devoted to the main character Sidra's tentative steps to "plunge" into forbidden desire, here crudely represented by the estero. Even the figures of the bystanders in the wooden bridge metamorphosed into the image of mosquitoes and slimy creatures in the background. Sidra, who developed an attraction to Brando, one of the "good-for-nothing habitués", could not decide if she would allow herself to be swayed by her feelings. Even if she was tempted to succumb to the advances made by Brando, she kept her cold distance even as she made signals that she was interested in him. Her grandmother, who lived with her, "drummed into her head, since her childhood, that she must never go to the estero, and not even look at it."

"Bad people live there," her grandmother said. "Women of ill-repute. If I had not been born here and if I had not expressed my wish to die here, we would have packed up and abandoned this place. These people are not from here. One morning, the estero was crawling with those makeshift shanties that seemed to have mushroomed overnight."

After dousing cold water on Brando's overt sexual invitations, Sidra decided one evening to visit Brando's shanty along the dirty estero, only to discover Brando was with another woman. She instantly fled the scene.

Her world crumbled. She shivered uncontrollably. Her whole body had retreated even before her mind made any decision. Breathing heavily, she swiftly took off, blood rushing to her face ...

Back in her room she made a sudden discovery: "It dawned on her that she had lost her slippers, as she hastily fled the shanty and her feet had been smeared with the fetid, foul-smelling mud from the estero."

The elliptical arc of the story was hardly representative of Lingat's style. In this story, however, the dirty setting of the estero functioned as an effective metaphor and image of Sidra's descent into the erotic.

The "locked door" of the title story was another representation of hidden desire. But the image was shrouded in horror and mystery. Like skeletons in the closet, the family secrets contained in the locked door were damaging, precisely because there literally was a skeleton in the closet! In an old country house, two spinsters and their father lived were visited by the brother and son who just married. The wife, walking around the spacious house, was bound to discover an ancient crime in the hidden corners and locked doors. The story was almost a variation of old Gothic novels.

In "The Diary of a Woman", sexual desire was once again upended when one man who raped a woman after knocking her unconscious, discovered, upon reading her diary, that she was infected by HIV by her former lover. Irony was such a potent tool in the stories.

With horror-stricken eyes, he stared at the woman on the bed. Her eyes were open. Her sorrowful gaze was fixed on him.

"We chose the manner of our death, Darmo. We should die happy!"

But not all desires in the stories were repressed and not all cruel expression of desires were rewarded with death-like chagrin. In "The Nocturnal Delights of Mrs. Javelosa", the protagonist experienced an alternative form of sexual liberation from her night swimming in the open sea, her only way of coping with the transgressions of her philandering husband. It was perhaps the very image of freedom and empowerment that Lingat's women characters were striving for.

The night was humid. Even the wind wafted by the ocean was warm. The sounds of the ocean intoned a supplication. The night surrounding her was in deep, uninterrupted sleep.

She stirred, removed her slippers, took off her robe and left her thin nightgown on the swing. The warmth of the wind caressed her body and she felt a sense of liberation. She took some steps, unhurriedly, and bared her lovely nakedness to the shimmering light from the moon.

The wet sand was cold, but the water kissing her feet was warm. The stars twinkled at the waves madly racing to graze her feet. She followed the dancing bubbles as the waves rapturously rose and ebbed, as if desperate to possess her. She succumbed to the waves passionately devouring her body, and reveled in their rhythmical cadence. The caressing touch that overpowered her was blissfully warm and it drove away the groaning sound of the universe.

Amid the groaning sound of the universe, Mrs. Javelosa, like Lingat's other women characters, navigated and "soldiered on" in life, according to the translator, "armed only with a strength and resolve that flow from within". Soledad S. Reyes in fact gave a very cogent introduction and thematic analysis to the collection she meticulously assembled and translated. She was spot on in saying that "Lingat's world is inhabited by characters whose fierce struggles takes place in their world. whose pain is rooted in their own personal errors of judgment and inability to understand their own place in a definite community". The conflicts in her characters' inner world only served to heighten the images and surfaces constituting their outer world.