The Revolution According to Raymundo Mata
[Excerpt]
By Gina Apostol
It was a bolt—a thunder bolt. A rain of bricks, a lightning zap. A pummelling of mountains, a heaving, violent storm at sea—a whiplash.
A typhoon, an earthquake. The end of the world. And I was in ruins. It struck me dumb. It changed my life and the world was new when
I was done. And when I raised myself from bed two days later I thought: it’s only a novel. If I ever met him, what would my life be? I lay
back in bed. But what a novel! And I cursed him, the writer—what was his name—for doing what I hadn’t done, for putting my world
into words before I even had the sense to know what the world was. That was his triumph—he’d laid out a trail, and all we had to do
was follow in his wake. Even then, I already felt the bitter envy, the acid retch of the latecomer artist, the one who will always be under
influence, by mere chronology always slightly suspect, a borrower never lender be. After him, all Filipinos are tardy ingrates. What is
the definition of art? Art is reproach to those who receive it. That was his curse upon all of us. I was weak, as if drugged. I realized: I
hadn’t eaten in two days. Then I got out of bed an d boiled barako for me.
(1)
The Revolution According to Raymundo Mata
[Excerpt]
By Gina Apostol
It was a bolt—a thunder bolt. A rain of bricks, a lightning zap. A pummelling of mountains, a heaving, violent storm at sea—a whiplash.
A typhoon, an earthquake. The end of the world. And I was in ruins. It struck me dumb. It changed my life and the world was new when
I was done. And when I raised myself from bed two days later I thought: it’s only a novel. If I ever met him, what would my life be? I lay
back in bed. But what a novel! And I cursed him, the writer—what was his name—for doing what I hadn’t done, for putting my world
into words before I even had the sense to know what the world was. That was his triumph—he’d laid out a trail, and all we had to do
was follow in his wake. Even then, I already felt the bitter envy, the acid retch of the latecomer artist, the one who will always be under
influence, by mere chronology always slightly suspect, a borrower never lender be. After him, all Filipinos are tardy ingrates. What is
the definition of art? Art is reproach to those who receive it. That was his curse upon all of us. I was weak, as if drugged. I realized: I
hadn’t eaten in two days. Then I got out of bed an d boiled barako for me.
(1)
The Revolution According to Raymundo Mata
[Excerpt]
By Gina Apostol
It was a bolt—a thunder bolt. A rain of bricks, a lightning zap. A pummelling of mountains, a heaving, violent storm at sea—a whiplash.
A typhoon, an earthquake. The end of the world. And I was in ruins. It struck me dumb. It changed my life and the world was new when
I was done. And when I raised myself from bed two days later I thought: it’s only a novel. If I ever met him, what would my life be? I lay
back in bed. But what a novel! And I cursed him, the writer—what was his name—for doing what I hadn’t done, for putting my world
into words before I even had the sense to know what the world was. That was his triumph—he’d laid out a trail, and all we had to do
was follow in his wake. Even then, I already felt the bitter envy, the acid retch of the latecomer artist, the one who will always be under
influence, by mere chronology always slightly suspect, a borrower never lender be. After him, all Filipinos are tardy ingrates. What is
the definition of art? Art is reproach to those who receive it. That was his curse upon all of us. I was weak, as if drugged. I realized: I
hadn’t eaten in two days. Then I got out of bed an d boiled barako for me.
(1)
The Revolution According to Raymundo Mata
[Excerpt]
By Gina Apostol
It was a bolt—a thunder bolt. A rain of bricks, a lightning zap. A pummelling of mountains, a heaving, violent storm at sea—a whiplash.
A typhoon, an earthquake. The end of the world. And I was in ruins. It struck me dumb. It changed my life and the world was new when
I was done. And when I raised myself from bed two days later I thought: it’s only a novel. If I ever met him, what would my life be? I lay
back in bed. But what a novel! And I cursed him, the writer—what was his name—for doing what I hadn’t done, for putting my world
into words before I even had the sense to know what the world was. That was his triumph—he’d laid out a trail, and all we had to do
was follow in his wake. Even then, I already felt the bitter envy, the acid retch of the latecomer artist, the one who will always be under
influence, by mere chronology always slightly suspect, a borrower never lender be. After him, all Filipinos are tardy ingrates. What is
the definition of art? Art is reproach to those who receive it. That was his curse upon all of us. I was weak, as if drugged. I realized: I
hadn’t eaten in two days. Then I got out of bed an d boiled barako for me.
(1)
Later it was all the rage in he coffee shops, in the bazaars of Binondo. People did not even hide it—crowds of men, and not just
students, not just boys, some women even, with their violent fans—gesticulating in public, throwing up their hands, putting up fists in
debate. Put your knuckles where your mouth is. We are loud, obstreperous, heedless. We were literary critics. We were cantankerous:
rude and raving. And no matter on which side you were, with the crown or with the infidels, Spain or spolarium, all of us, each one,
seemed revitalized by spleen, hatched from the wombs of long, venomous silence. And yes, suddenly a world opened up to me, after
the novel, to which before I had been blind.
***
Still I rushed into other debates, for instance with Benigno and Agapito, who had now moved into my rooms. Remembering Father
Gaspar’s cryptic injunction—“ throw it away to someone else,” so that in this manner the book travelled rapidly in those dark days of its
first printing, now so nostalgically glorious, though then I had no clue that these were historic acts, the act of reading, or that the book
would become such a collector’s item or otherwise I would have wrapped it in parchment and sealed it for the highest bidder, what the
hell, I only knew holding the book could very likely constitute a glorious crime—in short, I lent it to Benigno.
Continuation of The Revolution According to Raymundo Mata.... (2)
Later it was all the rage in he coffee shops, in the bazaars of Binondo. People did not even hide it—crowds of men, and not just
students, not just boys, some women even, with their violent fans—gesticulating in public, throwing up their hands, putting up fists in
debate. Put your knuckles where your mouth is. We are loud, obstreperous, heedless. We were literary critics. We were cantankerous:
rude and raving. And no matter on which side you were, with the crown or with the infidels, Spain or spolarium, all of us, each one,
seemed revitalized by spleen, hatched from the wombs of long, venomous silence. And yes, suddenly a world opened up to me, after
the novel, to which before I had been blind.
***
Still I rushed into other debates, for instance with Benigno and Agapito, who had now moved into my rooms. Remembering Father
Gaspar’s cryptic injunction—“ throw it away to someone else,” so that in this manner the book travelled rapidly in those dark days of its
first printing, now so nostalgically glorious, though then I had no clue that these were historic acts, the act of reading, or that the book
would become such a collector’s item or otherwise I would have wrapped it in parchment and sealed it for the highest bidder, what the
hell, I only knew holding the book could very likely constitute a glorious crime—in short, I lent it to Benigno.
Continuation of The Revolution According to Raymundo Mata.... (2)
Later it was all the rage in he coffee shops, in the bazaars of Binondo. People did not even hide it—crowds of men, and not just
students, not just boys, some women even, with their violent fans—gesticulating in public, throwing up their hands, putting up fists in
debate. Put your knuckles where your mouth is. We are loud, obstreperous, heedless. We were literary critics. We were cantankerous:
rude and raving. And no matter on which side you were, with the crown or with the infidels, Spain or spolarium, all of us, each one,
seemed revitalized by spleen, hatched from the wombs of long, venomous silence. And yes, suddenly a world opened up to me, after
the novel, to which before I had been blind.
***
Still I rushed into other debates, for instance with Benigno and Agapito, who had now moved into my rooms. Remembering Father
Gaspar’s cryptic injunction—“ throw it away to someone else,” so that in this manner the book travelled rapidly in those dark days of its
first printing, now so nostalgically glorious, though then I had no clue that these were historic acts, the act of reading, or that the book
would become such a collector’s item or otherwise I would have wrapped it in parchment and sealed it for the highest bidder, what the
hell, I only knew holding the book could very likely constitute a glorious crime—in short, I lent it to Benigno.
Continuation of The Revolution According to Raymundo Mata.... (2)
Later it was all the rage in he coffee shops, in the bazaars of Binondo. People did not even hide it—crowds of men, and not just
students, not just boys, some women even, with their violent fans—gesticulating in public, throwing up their hands, putting up fists in
debate. Put your knuckles where your mouth is. We are loud, obstreperous, heedless. We were literary critics. We were cantankerous:
rude and raving. And no matter on which side you were, with the crown or with the infidels, Spain or spolarium, all of us, each one,
seemed revitalized by spleen, hatched from the wombs of long, venomous silence. And yes, suddenly a world opened up to me, after
the novel, to which before I had been blind.
***
Still I rushed into other debates, for instance with Benigno and Agapito, who had now moved into my rooms. Remembering Father
Gaspar’s cryptic injunction—“ throw it away to someone else,” so that in this manner the book travelled rapidly in those dark days of its
first printing, now so nostalgically glorious, though then I had no clue that these were historic acts, the act of reading, or that the book
would become such a collector’s item or otherwise I would have wrapped it in parchment and sealed it for the highest bidder, what the
hell, I only knew holding the book could very likely constitute a glorious crime—in short, I lent it to Benigno.
Continuation of The Revolution According to Raymundo Mata.... (2)
