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(We take great pride in printing Nick Joaquin's homage to Franz Arcellana. This was recited at the Cultural Center of the Philippines last Aug. 6). Hi, Franz, I'm here to hail you: AVE! But I'm not saying: VALE! Because I'm sure you'll be seeing me again pretty soon. I got a ticket to ride. One Way. But now, now don't be afraid I am here to wax maudlin. I have come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. What I liked about this Caesar was: He himself never was maudlin. When I stopped participating in the UP writing workshops, he asked why. I explained that a very young girl had burst into tears when I panned her verses, and not all my apologies could stop her heartbreaking sobbing. And as I said to Franz: "Not all the poetry in the world is worth the tears of a child." And Franz said something like: "Literature is worth all the tears in the world, whether the tears be childish or adult." But no, sir: In no way at all was Franz Arcellana hard-hearted. Once he and I were invited to judge a short-story contest in a college writing class. It was just a simple intramural exercise and there were no prizes to be won. But when Franz saw the winners (they were utter babies!) he said to me: "Compadre, this is probably the very first time in their life these kids are winning a match. So why should it be only honors they will win? Let's give them some money prizes." And I cried in alarm: "No, Franz let's not! I'm not carrying any money." (I never carry any money.) And Franz said: "Okay, Compadre, I'll lend you the money, but be sure you pay me back." And that's how those lucky kids got unexpected prizes of a hundred pesos for the top winner, seventy pesos for the second placer, and thirty pesos for the cellar scribe. And we did not give them those prizes because we thought they had written masterpieces. * * * Otherwise, Franz was very strict about worthiness in literature. When someone he did not consider a writer at all was sent to Bangkok and there honored as the Filipino writer of the year, Franz was livid. It seemed to him shameless dishonesty -- and a dishonesty all the more squalid because pushed by politics. He had known such interested pushers on the literary scene during his early writing days -- I don't say neophyte days because I don't believe Francisco Arcellana was ever a neophyte. How do you distinguish between his prewar writings and his postwar work when both have the same youthful exuberance, the same thoughtful maturity? Jose Garcia Villa loved to say that he (Villa) didn't have to develop. "I," said he, "was born already evolved." And the same can be said for Arcellana. Franz was born already equipped with the prose that would be his creative tool for life -- a prose that could, at his bidding, be matter-of-fact or rapturous. It was as complete an instrument in early days as in later times. But as I started to say: When Franz was in his early writing days, Filipino writers in English were being pushed this way and that by critics of all shapes and sizes -- and each critic was positive he knew what Filipino writing in English should be. This chap here was saying it should be nationalistic. That chap there was declaring it should be proletarian. A third fellow wanted a return to the prehispanic, while another yelled to hell with yesterday and all the past: Let's embrace tomorrow and the future, meaning Mother America's way of life. And of course each critic grabbed at whichever writers he felt he could push. But there were two writers they could not touch: Jose Garcia Villa and Francisco Arcellana, because both Franz and Doveglion were so clearly genius in excelsis, not to be interfered with, not to be interrupted. And that was the good luck of Philippine culture, because thus did we acquire two treasures: the small but priceless hoard of Villa's poetry, and the small but priceless hoard of Arcellana's prose, which Franz was able to create unmolested by the cultural high priests of the 1930s. And those bullies could not cow him because they knew he didn't see them, he didn't hear them, he didn't feel them, he didn't care a camote about them. What he cared about was doing his own special kind of work in his own special way: the writing nobody else could do but Francisco Arcellana. That was his credo -- and no one could push him any other way. * * * I'm afraid I tried pushing him a little myself, after he disappeared into the groves of academe. "Franz, you can't stop writing!" "Franz, when are you going to do your first novel?" "Franz, you have this history of Philippine writing in English to tackle!" And when he retired from the UP I pushed ever harder. "Now, Compadre, you have no more excuses. You now have all the time in the world to do the books that have been languishing, waiting to be done by you. Now, Compadre, you have to go back to writing!" And so forth, and so on -- as if I didn't know pushers like me were what Franz Arcellana didn't see, didn't hear, didn't feel, and didn't care a camote about. He was the most independent spirit ever. So now, Franz, I'll salute you with the classic greeting: AVE! I won't say hallelujah, I won't say alas and alack, and I certainly won't say: VALE. See? I wasn't too maudlin, was I? Franz, I'll be seeing you. © 2002 www.inq7.net all rights reserved |
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