What would you like to do?
Plot of the small key by paz m latorena?
THE SMALL KEY by Paz latorena It was very warm. The sun, up above a sky that was all blue and tremendous and beckoning to birds ever on the wing, shone bright as if determined to scorch everything under heaven, even the low, square nipa house that stood in unashamed relief against the gray green haze of grass and leaves. It was a lonely dwelling, located far from its neighbors, which were huddled close to one another as if for mutual comfort, it was flanked on both sides by tall, slender bamboo tress which rustled plaintively under a gentle wind. On the porch a woman past her early twenties stood regarding the scene before her with eyes made incurious by its familiarity. All around her the land stretched endlessly, it seemed, and vanished into the distance there were dark newly plowed furrows where in due time timorous seedlings would give rise to study stalks and golden grain, to a ripping yellow sea in the wind and sun during harvest time. Promise of plenty and reward for hard toil! With a sigh of discontent, however, the woman turned and entered a small dining room where a man sat over a belated midday meal. Pedro Buhay, a prosperous farmer, looked up from his plate and smiled at his wife as she stood framed by the doorway, the sunlight glinting on her dark hair, which was drawn back, without a relenting wave, from a rather prominent and austere brow. "Where are the shirts I ironed yesterday?" she asked as she approached the table. "In my trunk, I think" he answered. "Some of them need darning" and observing the empty plate, she added, "do you want some more rice?" "No" hastily, "I am in a hurry to get back. We must finish plowing the south field today because tomorrow is Sunday." Pedro pushed the chair back and stood up. Soledad began to pile the dirty dishes one on top of the other. "Here is the key to my trunk" from the pocket of his khaki coat he pulled a string of nondescript red, which held together a big shiny key and another small, rather rusty - looking one. With deliberate care he untied the knot, and, detaching the big key, dropped the small one back into his pocket. She watched him fixedly as he did this. The smile left her face and strange look came into her eyes as she look the big key from him without a word together they left the dining room. Out on the porch, he put an arm around her shoulder and peered into her shadowed face. "You look pale and tired", he remarked softly. "What have you been doing all morning?" "Nothing," she said listlessly, "but the heat gives me a headache." "Then lie down and try to sleep while I am gone." For a moment they looked deep into each other's eyes. "It is really warm," he continued. "I think I will take off my coat." He removed the garment absent-mindedly and handed it to her. The stairs creaked under his weight as he went down. "Choleng" he turned his head as he opened the gate, "I shall pass by Tia Maria's house and tell her to come, I may not return before dark." Soledad nodded. Her eyes followed her husband down the road, noting the fine set of his head and shoulders, the ease of his stride. A strange ache rose in her throat. She looked at the coat he had handed to her. It exuded a faint smell of his favorite cigars, one of which he invariably smoked, after the day's work, on his way home from fields. Mechanically, she began to fold the garment. As she was doing so, a small object fell o the floor with a dull, metallic sound. Soledad stooped down and picked it up. It was the small key! She started at it in her palm as if she had never seen before. Her mouth was tightly drawn and for a while she looked almost old. She passes into the small bedroom and tossed the coat carelessly on the back of a chair. She opened the window and the early afternoon sunshine flooded in. On a mat spread on the bamboo floor were some newly washed garments. She began to fold them one by one in feverish haste, as if seeking in the task Of the moment a refuge from painful thoughts. But her eyes moved restlessly around the room until they rested almost furtively on a small trunk that was half concealed by a rolled mat in a dark corner. It was a small, old trunk, without anything on the outside that might arouse one's curiosity. But it held the things she had come to hate with unnecessary anguish and pain, and threatened to destroy all that was most beautiful between her and her husband! Soledad came across a torn garment. She threaded a needle but after a few uneven stitches she pricked her finger and a crimson drop stained the white garment. Then she saw she had been mending on the wrong way. "What is the matter with me?" she asked herself aloud as she pulled the thread with nervous and impatient fingers. What did it matter if her husband chose to keep the clothes of his first wife? "She is dead now, anyhow, she is dead." She repeated to herself over and over again. The sound of her own voice calmed her. She tried to thread the needle once more. But she could not, for the tears had come unbidden and completely blinded her. "My God," she cried with a sob "make me forget Indo's face as he put the small key back into his pocket" She brushed her tears with a sleeve of her camisa and abruptly stood up. The heat was stifling, and the silence in the house was beginning to be unendurable. She looked out of the window. she wondered what was keeping Tia Maria Perhaps Pedro has forgotten to pass by her house in his hurry. She could picture him out there in the south field gazing far and wide at the newly plowed land, with no thought in his mind but work. Work. For. To the people of the barrio whose patron saint, San Isidro Labrador, smiled on them with benign eyes from his crude altar in the little chapel up the hill, this season was a prolonged hour of passion during which they were blind and deaf to everything but the demands of the land. During the next half hour, Soledad wandered in and out of the rooms, in an effort to seek escape from her own thoughts and to fight down an overpowering impulse. Tia Maria would only come and talk to her to divert her thoughts to other channels! But the expression of her husband's face as he put the small key back into his pocket kept torturing her like a nightmare, goading her beyond endurance. Then, with all resistance to the impulse gone, she was kneeling before the small trunk. With a long drawn breath she inserted the small key. There was unpleasant, metallic sound for the key had not been used for a long time and it was rusty. II That evening Pedro Buhay hurried home with the usual cigar dangling from his mouth, please with himself and the tenants because the work in the south field has been finished. He was met by Tia maria at the gate and was told by her that Soledad was in bed with a fever. "I shall go to town and bring Dr.Santos," he decided, his cool hand on his wife's brow. Soledad opened her eyes. "Don't Indo," she begged with a vague terror in her eyes which he took for anxiety for him because the town was pretty far and the road was dark and deserted by that hour of the night. "I shall be all right tomorrow." Pedro returned an hour later, very tired and rather worried. The doctor was not at home. But the wife had promised to send him to Pedro's house as soon as he came in. Tia Maria decided to remain for the night. But it was Pedro who stayed up to watch over the sick woman. He was puzzled and worried - more than he cared to admit. It was true that Soledad had not looked very well when he left her early that that afternoon. Yet, he thought, the fever was rather sudden. He was afraid it might be a symptom of a serious illness. Soledad was restless the whole night. She tossed from one side to another, but towards morning she fell into some sort of troubled sleep. Pedro then lay down to snatch a few winks. He woke up to find the soft morning sunshine streaming through the half opened window, playing on the sleeping face of his wife. He got up without making any noise. His wife was now breathing evenly. A sudden rush of tenderness came over him at the sight of her - so slight, so frail. Tia Maria was nowhere to be seen, but that did not bother him for it was Sunday and work in the south field was finished. However, he missed the pleasant aroma which came from the kitchen every time he woke up early in the morning. The kitchen looked neat but cheerless, and an immediate search for wood brought no results. So, shouldering an ax, Pedro descended the rickety stairs that led to the backyard. The morning was clear and the breeze soft and cool. Pedro took in a breath of air. It was good - it smell of trees, of the rice fields, of the land he loved. He found a pile of logs under the young mango tree near the house, and began to chop. He swung the ax with rapid clean sweeps, enjoying the feel of the smooth wooden handle in his palms. As he stopped for a while to mop his brow, his eye caught the remnants of a smudge that had been built in the backyard. "Ah!" he muttered to himself. "She swept that yard yesterday after I left her. That coupled with the heat must have given her a headache and then the fever." The morning breeze stirred the ashes and a piece of white cloth fluttered into view. Pedro dropped his ax. It was a half - burnt panuelo. Somebody had been burning clothes. He examined the slightly ruined garment closely. A puzzled expression came into his eyes. First it was doubt groping for truth, then amazement, and finally agonized incredulity passed across his face. He almost ran back to the house. In three strides he was upstairs. He found his coat hanging from the back of a chair Cautiously he entered the room. The heavy breathing of his wife told him that she was still sleep. As he stood by the small trunk, a vague distance to open it assailed him. Surely, he must be mistaken. She could not have done it, she could not have done that…that foolish… Resolutely he opened trunk. It was empty. It was nearby noon when the doctor arrived. He felt Soledad's pulse and asked questions which she answered in monosyllables. Pedro stood by listening to the whole procedure with an expression when the doctor told him by the gate that nothing was really wrong with his wife although she seemed to be worried about something. The physician merely prescribed a day of complete test. Pedro lingered on the porch after the doctor had mouthed his horse and galloped away. He was trying not to be angry with his wife. He hoped it would be just an interlude that could be recalled without bitterness. She would explain sooner or later, she would be repentant, perhaps she would even try to convince him that shi had done it because she loved him. And he would listen and eventually forgive her for she was young always remain a shadow in their lives. How quiet and peaceful the day was! A cow that had strayed by looked over her shoulder with a round vague inquiry and went on chewing her cud, blissfully unaware of such things as a gnawing fear in the hear of a woman and a still smoldering resentment in a man's
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Paz Latorena, the youngest among the four children of Florencia Manguera and Valentin Latorena, was born on Jan. 19, 1908 in Boac, Marinduque. She finished basic schooling at …St. Scholastica's College in Manila and the Manila South High School (now the Araullo High School). In 1926, she took up Education at the University of the Philippines (UP) in Manila where she also attended a short story writing class under a key figure in Filipino literature in English, Paz Marquez Benitez of "Dead Stars" fame. In 1927, Latorena received an invitation from Benitez to write a column for the Philippines Herald Magazine, of which Benitez was the literary editor. That same year, Latorena, along with other campus writers, founded the UP Writers' Club. The Literary Apprentice, the UP Writers' Club's publication, then ran a short story by Latorena, "A Christmas Tale." Latorena also wrote poetry under the pseudonym, Mina Lys, which, according to Tanlayco, had a "romantic significance," for the then young writer. Before the year ended, the Marinduque native won the third prize in Jose Garcia Villa's Roll of Honor for the Best Stories of 1927 for her story, "The Small Key." For her final year of college in 1927, Latorena transferred to UST to finish her Education degree. She became the literary editor of the Varsitarian and published her poems, "Insight" and "My Last Song," under her nom de plume Mina Lys. She shortly earned her master's and doctorate degree while teaching literature courses in UST. In 1934, her doctoral dissertation, "Philippine Literature in English: Old Voices and New," received the highest rating of sobresaliente. Latorena's former students are now giants in Philippine letters: F. Sionil Jose, Nita Umali, Genoveva Edroza Matute, Zeneida Amador, Ophelia Dimalanta and Alice Colet-Villadolid, to name a few. "She was a delight to listen to and was one of the writers of the most beautiful short stories in her period," F. Sionil Jose said of Latorena in a video presentation. "We explored the characters of Shakespeare's stories. She was a formidable presence. We waited for the words of wisdom to fall from her lips and we were never the same after that," Luisa Zumel, a student who was eventually inspired to be a teacher herself, said in an open forum. In 1943, Latorena authored her last story, "Miguel Comes Home." She died a decade later, on October 19, 1953, of cerebral hemorrhage.
THE SMALL KEY "The Small Key" is a short story by Philipino author Paz Latorena. It is about a woman named Soledad who is married to a man named Pedro Buhay. They live on …a farm. One morning Soledad finds herself knowing that the farm will produce plenty but that she still had some inner feeling of discontent. She planned to mend some of her husband's shirts, which were in a locked trunk. Pedro took out from his pocket a string which held two keys, one large and shiny and one small and rusty. He gave Soledad the large key to his trunk and put the small key back in his jacket pocket. Since it was hot that morning, he removed his coat before leaving to work in the field. When he was gone, Soledad began to fold the jacket and the small key fell to the floor. It is obvious that Pedro values the small key while Soledad fears it. Soledad knows that the small key is a key to a different trunk. She tries to busy herself so that she will not think about what the smaller trunk contains, but she cannot stop thinking about it and reveals that the small trunk contains clothing that belonged to Pedro's first wife. She wonders why it is that he keeps her old clothing and why he seems to have a special feeling about them. She obviously fears that Pedro still loves his first wife even though she has been dead for many years by now. She reveals that she hates the things in the small trunk and worries that they will destroy the relationship between her and her husband. Despite her attempts to not think about the contents of the small trunk, Soledad opens it. At this point, Pedro returns home to find Soledad in bed supposedly with a fever. It turns out she does not. The next morning Pedro discovers a pile of ashes and half burnt clothing in the backyard. He realizes what Soledad has done and rushes to look in the trunk to confirm it. Soledad has indeed, burned his first wife's clothing. Pedro is angry and bitter that this has happened and he expects that Soleda will explain things later. He thinks to himself that he will forgive her because he loves her but that even if she did it out of love for him, it will always remain a matter of some resentment toward her for doing it.
Soledad-the wife Pedro Buhay-husband Dr. Santos- doctor Tia Maria- Aunt
small key is about the honesty of two persons ===== i think "small key is about the honesty of two persons" is not exactly correct. I mean the question is what the theme is. a…nd that answer is more related to plot. i think the theme of the story is; "Sometimes people do something to satisfy themselves even when they are fully aware of what the consequences of their actions will be." i think this story is more like pandora's box...
Analysis The story entitled The Small key by Paz Latorena is about how we react in a certain situation if we defeat of our emotion? "Someti…mes people do something to satisfy themselves even when they are fully aware of what the consequences of their actions will be." Through this theme we will know what is the nature of every person that we do some decision that we do not think first, lately we realize that what we did is wrong, for me if I am Choleng I will not burned the clothes remembrance of Pedro to his husband, because that is one way for him to give value to his wife. In this attitude of Pedro he shows the early Filipinos that they era sentiments person that he give importance to the person he love. And for Soledad it portrays that even now most of the Filipinos has the attitude of being jealous.
Sunset Paz Latorena The Man She came to him out of the rain like a rabbit of flotsam washed from the distant seas to the shore by uncertain tides. The wind blew from the ea…st that night and as the door of the rustly shop opened westward, it slammed shut behind her with a sort of vicious cheated force when she hurried in. The whole place rocked with the impact and startled him as he sat on a stool mending a pair of brown shoes in the dim light of a small, red lamp that hung from the blackened sawali ceiling. Outside the shop, the rain lashed down the narrow street with the fury of an aroused maniac, a steady flood from a sky of impenetrable darkness. The water streamed along the gutters, foaming at the heaps of filth congested there, rejected scraps of food, bits of yellow paper, pieces of rags, and untidy dirt. In what weather, no light shone along Barranco, the heart of the slums of the northern district, early as the hour still was. He stood up and eyed her uncertainly as she leaned heavily against the threshold, a slender, half drowned wisp of a woman clutching a faded violet scarf tightly around her narrow chest. "Yes?" he said with rising infection. She looked around the small shop―it was shabby but it was clean―and then at him as he stood under the red lamp, tall in his sleeveless undershirt and dark blue trousers with white stripes. "I was caught by the rain," she exclaimed in a voice hardly above a whisper, "this was the only place with a light." She coughed a dry, unnatural sound that shook her small body from head to foot. "So I came in," she gasped on, "but now I shall go." She turned to the door and opened it. The rain darted in and awoke him from his trance-like immobility and silence. "Don't," he protested, striding to the door and closing it with finality. "Sit down and wait for the rain to stop." She looked up and a tired smile of gratitude lighted up her face for a moment. There was his stool in the middle of the small shop, directly under the red lamp, and there was a small papag in a corner by the small tightly closed window. He led her to that. The only chair in the shop had been borrowed that afternoon by a neighbor and had not yet been returned he apologized with an embarrassed laugh. The papag creaked unpleasantly as she sat down without a word. She cast off the wet scarf from her shoulders with a quick movement, as if its dampness had suddenly become oppressive and intolerable. He sat on the stool once more and resumed his work. Did she live far? Was his tentative query. She nodded. Was she looking for someone living in the neighborhood? Again the mute answer. There were other things he wanted to know but the question that surged to his lips were stilled by her reticence. He glanced at her furtively. There was something vaguely disturbing in her stillness her feet barely touched the floor, her hands were quietly folded on her lap, her eyes were turned down, seemingly intent on the pattern of her red chinelas. The silence deepened, lengthened into minutes. A musty odor of damp earth and humid air hung heavily in the room. Dark wetness crept in through the slits in the nipa wall. The wind continued the havoc without, and in all the world there seemed to be no other sound but the drip, drip on the roof. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the rain stopped. From somewhere in the distance a church bell made itself heard and tolled the hour. He looked up. The woman had fallen asleep. She had dropped on one side, and one of her arms pillowed her head while the other was carelessly thrown across her breast. He put his work down and lighted a stumpy candlestick. He stood up and made his way to the corner to wake her up. Drops of water still glistened on the mass of black hair that was knotted loosely at the black of her head. A stray tendril threw its shadow across her sleeping face. The large mouth with its full but colorless lips was slightly parted by her irregular breathing. He gazed at her for long while-the mass of black hair, the closed eyes with their long lashes the tips of which touched the soft brown of her cheeks. And a sudden desire to touch her face overwhelmed him as he stood above her. She was so small, so soft, so still in the flickering candle light. He remembered that she had looked at him from the door with eyes made enormous by dark circles under them. In the dim light of the lamp he had not discerned the color of those eyes. Were they black? Or brown? They were dark-brown in the clear morning when Barranco woke up to find a strange woman in the cobbler's shop. And they were sad as they met his in the cold and cruel light. But could anything else have happened, he asked himself hopelessly. He closed his eyes and saw her again in the frail and haunting loveliness that had been hers in the flickering candlelight. A long silence bridged the charm of speech. When the spoke it was almost as if her words were so many pebbles flung into that chasm for themer purpose of sound, as full of hopeless regret was her voice. "I suppose, I should…" the words halted there. It was many days later when he learned how she came to him that night of wind and rain. She had been working in the house of a vaudeville star. She had been happy, she assured him, because the señorita was kind. But the younger brother, coming home only that night, had been nasty in his drunkenness. She had fled from the house, from evil eyes and evil lips and evil hands that had seared her flesh with their touch. She had wandered through unfamiliar streets-from the boat she had gone straight to the senorita's house, upon her arrival from the province only a few months before―until the sudden rain had driven her to his door. From mud to mud, he thought as he listened to her story and watched her trembling hands. A sense of the enormous wrong he had done her troubled him, also an intangible responsibility and a vague to atone. He would marry her. He said that aloud, feeling he not only should but wanted to. "But we have to wait," he told one evening across their frugal meal; "marriage cost money. The license… other fees…" "The senorita…" she ventured timidly. "I do not want you to go to that house," he reminded her, "and I shall pay for the license," he added in cold voice. She was silent. The Woman Barranco was horrified―even the slums had a code of morals loose―but not for long. The poor people had too many other things and personal affairs to worry about―for example, how to feed seven children everyday on twenty centavos. In time the neighbors forgot, for they rarely saw her. It was the cobbler who went to the market, it was the cobbler who hung the wet clothes in the backyard every morning. And something in her voice, something gay and undaunted made them stop their work for a while to listen to her and to notice how lovely the day was. For beautiful mornings came after that night of rain-soft sunshine, blue skies, tender breezes―kind days during which she learned to love her tall cobbler who made barely enough money to keep them both in rice and fish everyday. Often she would sit quietly on the papag and watch him as he sat on his stool mending a pair of shoes that would bring them a day's meal or standing by the door talking to a neighbor across the narrow street while waiting for a customer to come in and the night. So they were not only lovely but happy days as well. Yet she counted them, for if work became steady, they might save the money to marry on. Somehow nothing had been said about marriage since the night he had forbidden her to go back to the house of her former senorita. But how she could talk about it, she argued with herself impatiently whenever the question furtively intruded into her thoughts, when there were times when they did not have enough money for the market? Once or twice she was tempted to go to the señorita without his knowledge, but she could not think of a good excuse to leave the house for a long time. And she had learned his anger which was swift and silent and somehow terrible. She had incurred it once by making a friend of the wife of a neighbor and chatting for hours across the back fence for the sheer pleasure of hearing another woman's voice. He had said anything but she had cried because he had eaten his meal without her. She was sweeping the shop one morning―the cobbler had left to deliver a pair of shoes to its owner―when a small gray car made its way through the narrow street and a girl in a gaudy sweater came down, staring with bewildered eyes at the small protection. "Senorita," she exclaimed joyfully as a shadow darkened the threshold. "Yes," the girl in the gaudy sweater hastened inside. "What are you doing in this shop?" "I live here, señorita," she said, dusting the only chair with a sleeve of her camisa and offering it to the unexpected visitor. "I had come to take you back," crossing her silk-clad legs, "because Pepe is now living with Mother. He told me what happened the night you left. But the detective I hired took a long time to locate you." The voice of the señorita was very kind, so were the eyes, and before she realized what she was doing, she had sobbed the whole story. "But he is going to marry me, señorita," she smiled through her tears, "as soon as we have enough money with which to pay the license and other fees." The girl's face softened, became almost beautiful. "Well. Here is the salary you forgot to ask for in your hurry to leave," opening a beaded handbag and drawing out two ten-peso bills and a small card." And here is my new address, in case you should change your mind. "But señorita…" she stared at the bills in her hand. "The other bill is my gift to the bride," she said, smiling. "And now is there anything else I can do for you?" "Yes, there is, señorita," she clutched the girl's arm in her excitement. "Wait for him. And do not tell him you have seen me. Say that you have heard about us from the detective you hired to locate me, that you are giving him this gift of money so he can marry me." "But why?" the girl was puzzled. "Because I love him, señorita, and I want him to think he is paying for the license, not I." she explained as she snatched a scarf―the same faded violet scarf with which she had come to her cobbler out of the night and the rain and hurried out. The small gray car no longer blocked the narrow street when she returned about an hour later. Inside the shop the cobbler was regarding a dirty pair of black shoes perched on his low table with evident dislike. "Where have you been?" he asked casually as she came in. "Looking for isis with which polish our table," she answered in a happy voice, waving a branch of rough leaves before his eyes. "You should not leave the when I am out." He remarked thoughtfully. "People might come in," he added. "Did any?" she challenged gayly. She stood before him expectantly, her eyes starry bright. "Well …no," he spoke slowly as he resumed the scrutiny of the black shoes. A bit of the radiance left her eyes. Rather puzzled, she picked up the isis that had fallen to the ground and went inside the kitchen to prepare the midday meal. Throughout the rest of the morning she resolutely kept calm and refrained from thinking. She would not let anything, not even curiosity, master her into unnecessary doubt, until he himself should, consciously or unconsciously, give the clue to his rather strange behavior. "I have a surprise for you," he told her drowsily as he curled up for his usual afternoon nap. The relief was so sudden and so sharp that it almost brought tears to her eyes. She did not speak because she knew her voice would betray her. He was keeping the news as a surprise. He would tell her about it tonight and she hoped there would be rain to remind him of the night she had come to him. And in a rush of patience for the ugly and furtive thoughts that had troubled her in spite of herself, she ran her fingers through his hair. He was fast sleep. With renewed buoyancy, she moved about the shop the rest of the afternoon, excited, humming a tune as she worked. She made fun of the dirty black shoes the cobbler began mending after his brief nap. She laughed over the very long needle and the very thick thread he chose for his work. But even the night brought nothing. Close to him in the dark she waited in vain for the words that would make of their life together a beautiful symphony, not the sordid interlude it was threatening to be. Seen through the little window, the sky of night, so smooth, so bestarred, looked wrinkled through her screen of unshed tears. Her thoughts release at last, kept her company through the long night like so many shadow specters. And something she could only feel but no name assumed definite proportions with the dawn. The new day brought his surprise―it was carefully wrapped in fine white paper, and he had in his pocket when he arrived home from the market. At first she did not want to unwrap the small package. Truth hung by a hair and as long as it hung, she could swear it was a lie. When she finally did, she was conscious of a sharp and indignant agony. She did not ask questions about it. And she noticed that he was relieved as he was surprised by her strange lack of curiosity. It was a pretty although inexpensive little thing―a square violet scarf of thin silk with a small tassels all around. But she wore the old faded one when, three days later, she told him she had found another job. "But why?" he wanted to know. "I am not earning much but…" "We cannot go on like this," she spoke low to keep the bitterness out of her voice, "it is not right." "You mean…" "Yes. Let us both work and save money. Then perhaps…" She watched his face keenly. There was not even the flicker of an eyelash to betray him. "Where will you work this time?" he asked for a long silence. She had only to show the card the señorita had given her. But her knowledge of the whole torturing incident prevented her from doing so. "Somewhere not very far from here," she told him lightly. A gift was a gift, she reminded herself fiercely. She had given him that money through the señorita without his asking for it, freely, to do with it as he liked. And she chose to let her go. She left late the next afternoon. He wanted to go with her but she asked him not to, promising to send him word and her address later. "The fish is under the basin, near the stove," she reminded him as he helped her into the carretela that was waiting for her. He gave her a bundle, the clothes of his dead mother which he had insisted on her taking with her. His face was pale in the late afternoon light, his hands were none too steady. She smiled compassionate divinity looking down on the puny sins of man. She was still smiling as the horse started. At the end of the street she turned her head and waved her hand to him as he stood by the gate in the failing darkness.
Soledad-the wife Pedro Buhay-husband Dr. Santos- doctor Tia Maria- Aunt
"Sometimes people do something to satisfy themselves even when they are fully aware of what the consequences of their actions will be."
"Sunset" is about a man and a woman who feel in love even if theydo not really know each other's background. It is also about thetraditions when it comes to marriage.
She is one of the famous female writer in the Philippines..
It has no ending. Meaning you are to conclude what really will happen.
plot and theme of the sunset by paz latorena'
The White Man, A man with white blood in his veins.. (I think he's from the WEST according to the Author) (and the other one is the Main Character.. the Women..) A very broad …forehead gave her face an unpleasant, masculine look. Her eyes, which were small, slanted at the corners and made many of her acquaintances wonder if perchance she had a few drops of celestial blood in her veins. Her nose was broad and flat, and its nostrils were always dilated, as if breathing were an effort. Her mouth, with thick lips, was a long, straight; gash across her face made angular by her unusually big jaws.
She was one of the foremost writers of the first generation of Filipino English writers. She was the oldest of 10 children. She received both a masters degree and a doctor…ate degree. She was a poet, editor, author, and teacher.
'Desire' is a short story written by Filipino author Paz M. Latorena, one of the first writers from the Philippines that wrote in English. 'Desire' tells the story of a wo…man that doesn't has a beautiful face, but that does has a very attractive body, she yearns for finding true love, but is disappointed at men only feeling desire for her body. The main character of the story remains unnamed, the same with the rest of the characters, she is only referred as 'She', the man she believes could be her true love is only called 'He', and the rest are called 'They'.