Francisco b icasiano autobiography of benjamin moore

Let me give a sketchy picture of the little world whose company Mang Kiko shared in moments which soon passed away affecting most of us. First, there came to my notice three husky individuals who dusted their seats furiously with their handkerchiefs without regard to hygiene or the brotherhood of men. It gave me no little annoyance that on such a quiet morning the unpleasant aspects in other people's ways should claim my attention.

Then there was a harmless-looking middle-aged man in green camisa de chino with rolled sleeves who must have entered asleep. When I noticed him he was already snugly entrenched in a corner seat, with his slippered feet comfortably planted on the opposite seat, all the while his head danced and dangled with the motion of the train. I could not, for the love of me, imagine how he would look if he were awake.

A child of six in the next seat must have shared with me in speculating about the dreams of this sleeping man in green.

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Was he dreaming of the Second World War or the price of eggs? Had he any worries about the permanent dominion status or the final outcome of the struggles of the masses, or was it merely the arrangement of the scales on a fighting roaster's legs that brought that frown on his face? But the party that most engaged my attention was a family of eight composed of a short but efficient father, four very young children, mother, grandmother, and another woman who must have been the efficient father's sister.

They distributed themselves on four benches - you know the kind of seats facing each other so that half the passengers travel backward.

Francisco b icasiano autobiography of benjamin moore: The writer took a train ride

The more I looked at the short but young and efficient father the shorter his parts looked to me. His movements were fast and short, too. He removed his coat, folded it carefully and slung it on the back of his seat. Then he pulled out his wallet from the hip pocket and counted his money while his wife and the rest of his group watched the ritual without a word.

Then the short, young, and efficient father stood up and pulled out two banana leaf bundles from a bamboo basket and spread out both bundles on one bench and log luncheon was ready at ten o'clock. With the efficient father leading the charge, the children except the baby in his grandmother's arms began to dig away with little encouragement and aid from the elders.

In a short while the skirmish was over, the enemy - shrimps, omelet, rice and tomato sauce - were routed out, save for a few shrimps and some rice left for the grandmother to handle in her own style later. Then came the water-fetching ritual. The father, with a glass in hand, led the march to the train faucet, followed by three children whose faces still showed the marks of a hard-fought-battle.

Icasiano's literary works did not stop with the essays as he also wrote a series of short stories, including the title Sonia.

Francisco b icasiano autobiography of benjamin moore: Under the pseudonym "Mang

What else do we know about Icasiano's life? Other information surrounding the Filipino author is scarce but we do know the names of his parents, Francisca Bayan and Bonifacio Ycasiano and we know that he was one of seven siblings born into the family. Shujing answered. There is no much reference regarding Francisco Icasiano or his biography.

For indeed, how can we find our souls when we are wrapped up in matter so that we cannot take a step, or put out a hand, or lift up our eyes, but material things are all about us, following us even to our dreams? People say something pleasant to us, and though it be but "hot air," it is enough to puff us up. We would feed our souls upon vanity and know not it is a Barmecide feast.

Could we but strip ourselves of pride and vanity, things would fall back into their proper places, and we should see the hidden harmony of creation and pierce through the things that alone are seen of the world to those that are unseen, setting no store by these fascinating shadows, even before the time when they crumble away and vanish into naught, as all worldly things must, soon or late.

The climax in this grand ascent of sorrow is the perception of reality. When in moments of devastating grief, my being seemed consumed, I treid to deceive myself by pretending that it was all a dream and I would wake to find Sonia's death a mere fancy; the forced illusion would always vanish and a newer; more vivid, more convincing, more permanent if painful realization would reveal to me that the whole of human experience this side of Eternity is nothing but a dream which, with death, finally comes to an awakening to the only Reality intended by the Maker of Life.

I am convinced that life in this temporary habitation is a vague and miserable dream, a nightmare in which the dreamer is driven from one pain to another, now frightened by life, now terrified by the thought of death; until one realizes that there is in this nightmare a symbol of the Reality that is coming with the dawn and the awakening.

This realization of the Reality must make a real artist of a man. Broken with pain, the soul dies to be reborn, stronger and more beautiful; enriched and ennobled by sorrow, the artist in the man rises above himself; shorn of all fineries and pettiness- all nonessential, in a word- the artist flows naturally toward the Infinite whither all artistic effort must be directed.

Thither must I direct my art. Art to me has ceased to be careful and artificial. It has become the natural life of the sou, it is the voice of my soul crying out to heaven for a vision of Sonia, pleading for a communion with her. I shall remove everything about me. When the last word is written and my hand drops limp and lifeless by my side, I hope to hear the gentle patter of little feet and feel the tender touch of little hands around my neck.

No comments:. Newer Post Older Post Home. Subscribe to: Post Comments Atom. Icasiano Sonia by Francisco B. About Me Final Approach View my complete profile. There was no formal introduction, and a conclusion at the end. It seemed that it was left for the readers to decide which is a characteristic of a short story. So, there is still the confusion in the distinction between the short story and the essay.

I also found strange stuff that the priest had been doing with the child and realized they are not being done in the baptismal that Catholic have now.