Category: nick joaquin

Marra Lanot of the charmed literary circle (1944-2026)

Never met Marra or Pete Lacaba, but knew of them, of course. In ’99 our paths sort of crossed when Eggie Apostol asked for a copy of Himagsikan sa EDSA — Walang Himala! (2000) after it won an Honorable Mention in Erap’s 1998 Centennial Literary Contest. Her Tagalog wasn’t good, she said, so she was going to ask Pete to check it out first. She got back to me a few days later with the good news that Pete said yes to the People Power Foundation publishing it but that the manuscript needed editing, which Marra would be happy to do.

I looked forward to Marra’s edit because it was a puzzle that only the Sanaysay category named no major prizes, just four (4) Honorable Mentions. Was our Tagalog, Pilipino, whatever, not good enough? I had dared ask the Judge at a post-awards party and he said, “Dapat nagpa-edit ka.” Eh di eto na nga, thanks to Eggie.

And thanks to Marra who didn’t touch my prose, what a relief. Pero marami akong natutunan tungkol sa pagsusulat sa Pilipino. Ipinaalala niya ang mga patakaran sa paggamit ng “rin-din” at “raw-daw,” gayon din ng “ng-nang” (that I thought I had down pat from HS Balarila days, though I did tend to play around with them, haha). Idiniin din niya ang mga bagong patakaran sa mga salitang inuulit, tulad ng “sunudsunod” at “libulibo” na “sunod-sunod” at “libo-libo” na, at wala na ring kudlit ang “ngunit subalit datapwat.”

And finally my spelling. Yes, my ispeling of certain words: “Coryista” not “Corysta,” “tsismis” not “chismis,” “taumbayan” not “taongbayan,” how was I to know, and what if I preferred “taongbayan”?  Matagal ko ring pinag-isipan ang “aksiyon” at “tensiyon” imbis na “aksyon” at “tensyon” until I saw my “leksiyon.” Sabi nga ni Marra, sanayan lang. Sa pagsulat ng Pilipino, hindi necessarily sa bigkas ibinabatay ang baybay.

Salamat uli, Marra. I remember the big smile you gave me as you rushed off to class (late ka na!) from an Ateneo tribute to Eggie. And I still have our FB chat back in 2018 when I invited you and Pete to an Ishmael Bernal exhibit sa UP Film Center. I so wanted to give you a copy of Pro Bernal Anti Bio (2017) that has marginal notes by Pete on the First Quarter Storm. You didn’t make it but messaged back with kuwentos of dancing the tango with Nick Joaquin in Ishma’s Grey November in the ’60s, and when Pete was arrested in ’74 for sneaking past Marcos censors the acrostic poem “Prometheus Unbound” — hiding in plain sight the bold phrase “MARCOS HITLER DIKTADOR TUTA” — how Ishma would visit you, even asked you for a script, and kept in touch, making sure you were okay. And when Mang Nick, upon accepting the National Artist  for Literature award in ’76, got Marcos to release Pete, it was kind of magical and awesome.

Marra Lanot of the “charmed literary circle,” I wrote of you in a 2017 EDSA essay. To my mind, “charmed,” for having survived martial law despite standing up to Marcos, even displaying, in Mang Nick’s words, “a most enjoyable recklessness” in a “climate of fear.”

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“Prometheus Unbound” by Pete Lacaba
https://ndfp.info/prometheus-unbound/

“The Writer in a Climate of Fear” by Nick Joaquin
https://newsinfo.inquirer.net/640001/nick-joaquin

writing in a “climate of fear”

Speech delivered by National Artist Nick Joaquin at the Philippine PEN Conference, July 1983.

Let me show you fear in a handful of dust—or rather of press releases.

A PEN (Poets, Playwrights, Essayists, Novelists) member took a handful of press releases to the newspaper offices. The press releases were about this conference we’re having today. But one look at the press releases and the editors froze. They had read the title of this conference.

Another look and the editors shuddered. They had read the list of speakers at this conference: names like professor Gonzales and Senator Diokno and Letty Magsanoc.

Needless to say, it was hard work distributing those press releases. They had generated fear in the offices of the principal newspapers of this country.

But why should such a fear be strongest and most prevalent among those who are, so to put it, on the side of the angels? Those on the opposite side, you would think, have more reasons to be afraid.

But it’s the oppositionists who display a most enjoyable recklessness. Ah, but even if they do not share that fear, they too must live in the climate of fear created by those who have to be oh so careful about what they write and what they publish.

Nervous is the word

This is the climate being created today by the press in the Philippines—not the press of the opposition but the conformist press. The conforming press is so powerful it should be fearless—and yet it doesn’t even sound comfortable.

Nervous would be the word for the principal newspapers today. They’re nervous about what they print and they’re nervous about what they don’t print. They’re nervous about what their columnists may say and they’re nervous about what their columnists don’t say.

And this general nervousness communicates itself to you when you try to visit any of the big newspaper offices: It’s like trying to break into an armed camp.

Now the so-called creative writer may ask what had he got to do with the conditions under which the newspaper writer must perform.

But if it’s the press that creates the cultural climate today, and that climate is one of fear, then even the creative writer, however independent he may think himself to be, is actually also suffering from the conditions that make the newspaper writer so nervous.

Neither safe nor free

The proposition that literature is automatically free, because written in the light of eternity, while journalism is necessarily enslaved to the concerns of the moment—that proposition is false. And even if not false, still indefensible.

No more than other republics can the Republic of Letters exist half-slave and half-free. While his brothers in journalism are in thrall, the creative writer is himself not whole, not safe and not free.

SONG BETWEEN WARS

Nick Joaquin
(1947)

Wombed in the wounds of war
grow golden boys and girls
whose green hearts are
peacocks perched upon apes
and pigs that feed on pearls
or sour grapes.

But we are old–we are only
a point, a pause
in the earth’s decay–we are
lonely
but no day dies
in the eyes we dare not close
lest we flock with flies.

Bankrupt by war,
let us mine the honey
that’s ored in udders that are
this lad, that lass,
because they are molten money
and their bones are cash.

Imperial their coin still is
when other currencies are
imperilled; when peace
is for every man and woman
a labyrinth; and war
the bull that’s human.

War is the Minotaur
and we are the waters
bearing for him to devour
the young, the beautiful–
our sons and daughters:
the tax we pay to the Bull.

The maze we made they shall
travel,
its winding ways unwind
and the riddle unravel
till they come to the end of
the thread:
the labyrinth behind
and the Beast ahead.

Man of Earth
Ateneo de Manila University Press
1989