Desire

by Paz Latorena

She was homely. 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.

But nature, as if ashamed of her meanness in fashioning the face, moulded a body of
unusual beauty. From her neck to her small feet, she was perfect. Her bust was full, and her
breast rose up like twin roses in full bloom. Her waist was slim as a young girls her hips
seemed to have stolen the curve of the crescent moon. Her arms were shapely ending in
small hands with fine tapering fingers that were the envy of her friends. Her legs with their
trim ankles reminded one of those lifeless things seen in shop windows displaying the
latest silk stockings.

Hers was a body of a sculptor, athirst for glory, might have dreamt of and moulded in a
feverish frenzy of creation, with hand atremble with a vision of the fame in store for him.
Hers was a body that might have been the delight and despair of a painter whose feelings
faltering brush tried in vain to depict on the canvass such a beautiful harmony of curves
and lines. Hers was a body a poet might have raved over and immortalized in musical,
fanciful verses. Hers was a body men would gladly have gone to hell for.

And they did. Men looked at her face and turned their eyes away; they looked at her body
and were enslaved. They forget the broad masculine forehead, the small eyes that slanted
at the corners, the unpleasant mouth, the aggressive jaws. All they had eyes for was that
body, those hips that has stolen the curve of the crescent moon.

But she hated her body hated that gift which Nature, in a fit of remorse for the wrong
done to her face, had given her. She hated her body because it made men look at her with
an unbeautiful light in their eyes married eyes, single eyes.

She wanted love, was starved for it. But she did not want that love that her body inspired in
men. She wanted something purer, cleaner.

She was disgusted. And hurt. For men told other women that they loved them looking deep
into their eyes to the soul beneath their voices low and soft, their hands quivering with the
weight of their tenderness. But men told her that they loved her body with eyes that made
her feel as if she were naked, stripped bare of their simple eyes to gaze upon. They told her
that with voices made thick with desire, touched her with hand afire, that scared her flesh,
filling her with scorn and loathing.

She wanted to be loved as other women were loved. She was as good as pure as they. And
some of them were as homely as she was. But they did not have beautiful bodies. And so
they were loved for themselves.

Deliberately she set out to hide from the eyes of men the beautiful body that to her was a
curse rather than a blessing. She started wearing long, wide dresses that completely
disfigured her. She gave up wearing the Filipino costume which outlined her body with
startling accuracy.

It took quite a time to make men forget that body that had once been their delight. But after
a time they became accustomed to the disfiguring dresses and concluded she had become
fate and shapeless. She accomplished the desired result.

And more.. For there came a time when men look at her and turned their eyes away, not
with the unbeautiful light of former days but with something akin to pity mirrored there
pity for a homely face and a shapeless mass of flesh.

At first she was glad. Glad that she had succeeded in extinguishing that unbeautiful light in
the eyes of men when they looked at her.

After some time, she became rebellious. For she was a woman and she wanted to be loved
and to love. But it seemed that men would not have anything to do with a woman with a
homely face and an apparently shapeless mass of flesh.

But she became reconciled to her fate. And rather than bring back that unbeautiful light in
mens eyes, she chose to go with the farce.

She turned to writing to while away the long nights spent brooding all alone.

Little things. Little lyrics. Little sketches. Sometimes they were the heart throbs of a woman
who wanted love and sweet things whispered to her in the dark.. Sometimes, they were the
ironies of one who sees all the weaknesses and stupidities of men and the world through
eye made bitter by loneliness.

She sent them to papers which found the little things acceptable and published them, To
fill space, she told herself. But she continued to write because it made her forget once in a
while how drab her life was.

And then came into her life a man with white blood in his veins. He was one of those who
believed in the inferiority of colored races. But he found something unusual in the light,
ironic tirades from the pen of the unknown writer. Not in the little lyrics. No, he thought
that those were superfluous effusions of a woman belonging to a race of people who could
not think of writing about anything except love. But he liked the light airy sketches. They
were like those of the people of his race.

One day, when he had nothing to do, he sent her, to encourage her, a note of appreciation. It
was brief, but the first glance showed her that it came from cultured man.

She answered it, a light, nonsensical answer that touched the sense of humor of the white
man. That started a correspondence. In the course of time, she came to watch for the mail
carrier for the gray tinted stationery that was his.

He asked to see her to know her personally. Letters were so tantalizing. Her first impulse
was to say no. A bitter smile hovered about her lips as she surveyed her face before the
mirror. He would be disappointed, she told herself.

But she consented. They would have to meet sooner or later. The first meeting would
surely be trial and the sooner it was over, the better.

He, the white man, coming from a land of fair, blue-eyed women, was shocked. Perhaps, he
found it a bit difficult to associate this homely woman with one who could write such
delightful sketches, such delightful letters.

But she could talk rather well. There was a light vein of humor, faintly ironical at times, in
everything she said. And that delighted him.

He asked her to come out with him again. By the shore of Manila Bay one early evening,
when her homely face was softened by the darkness around them, he forgot that he was a
white man, that she was a brown maiden a homely and to all appearances, shapeless
creature at that. Her silence, as with half closed eyes she gazed at the distance, was very
soothing and under the spell of her understanding sympathy, he found himself telling her of
his home way over the seas, how he loved the blue of the sea on early morning because it
reminded of the blue of the eyes of the women of his native land. He told her of his love of
the sea, for the waves that dashed against the rocks in impotent fury, how he could spend
his life on the water, sailing on and on, to unknown and uncharted seas.
She listened to him silently. Then he woke up from the spell and, as if ashamed of the
outburst of confidence, added irrelevantly:

But you are different from the other women of your race, looking deep into her small eyes
that slanted at the corners.

She smiled. Of course she was, the homely and shapeless mass of flesh that he saw her to
be.

No, I do not mean that, he protested, divining her thoughts, you do not seem to care much
for convention. No Filipino girl would go out unchaperoned with a man, a white mad at
that.

A homely woman can very well afford to break conventions. Nobody minds her if she does.
That is one consolation of being homely, was her calmly reply.

He laughed.

You have some very queer ideas, he observed.

I should have, she retorted. If I didnt nobody would notice me with my face and my
my figure, she hated herself for stammering the last words.

He looked at her impersonally, as if trying to find some beauty in her.

But I like you, was his verdict, uttered with the almost brutal frankness in his race. I have
not come across a more interesting girl for a long time.

They met, again. And again. Thoughts, pleasant thoughts, began to fill her mind. Had she at
last found one who liked her sincerely? For he liked her, that she was ready to believe. As a
friend, a pal who understood him. And the though gave her happiness a friend, a pal who
understood him such as she had never experienced before.

One day, an idea took hold of her simply obsesses her. He was such a lover of beautiful
things of beauty in any form. She noticed that in all his conversations, in very look, every
gesture of his. A desire to show him that she was not entirely devoid of beauty which he
worshipped came over her.

It would not do any harm, she told herself. He had learned to like her for herself. He had
leaned to value their friendship, homely as she was shapeless as he thought her to be. Her
body would matter not at all now. It would please the aesthete in him perhaps, but it
certainly would not matter much to the man.

From the bottom of a very old truck, she unearthed one of those flimsy, shapedly things tha
had lain there unused for many years. As she looked at herself in the mirror before the
appointment, she grudgingly admitted that her body had lost nothing of its hated beauty.

He was surprised. Pleasantly so.

Accustomed as he was to the beautiful bodies of the women of his race, he had to confess
that there was something of unusual beauty.

Why have you been hiding such a beautiful figure all this time, he demanded in mock
anger.

I did not know it was beautiful, she lied.

Pouff! I know it is not polite to tell a young lady she is a liar so I wont do it. But but

But fear was beginning to creep into her voice.

Well Let us talk of something else.

She heaved in a deep sigh. She was right. She had found a man to whom her body mattered
little if anything at all. She need not take warning. He had learned to like her for herself.

At their next meeting she wore a pale rose Filipino dress that softened the brown of her
skin. His eyes lighted up when they rested on her, but whether it was the unbeautiful light
that she dreaded so much, she could not determine for it quickly disappeared. No, it could
not be the unbeautiful light. He liked her for herself. This belief she treasured fondly.

They had a nice long ride out in the country, where the winds were soft and faintly scented
and the bamboo tress sighed love to the breeze. They visited a little our of the way nipa
chapel by the roadside where a naked Man, nailed to the Cross, looked at them with eyes
which held all the tragedy and sorrow of the world for the sins of sinning men.

She gazed at the figure feeling something vague and incomprehensible stirring within her.
She turned to him for sympathy and found him staring at her at her body.

He turned slightly red. In silence they left the little chapel. He helped her inside the car but
did not start it at once.

I I love he stammered after some moment, as if impelled by an irresistible force.

Then he stopped.

The small eyes that slanted at the corners were almost beautiful with a tender, soft light as
she turned them on hi. So he loved her. Had he learned not only to like her but to love her?
For herself. And the half finished confession found an echo in the heart of the woman who
was starved for love.

Yes there was a pleading note in her voice.

He swallowed hard. I love. Your body. He finished with a thick voice: And the blue eyes
flared with the dreaded, hateful light.

She uttered an involuntary cry of protest, of pain of disillusion. And then a sob escaped her.

And dimly the man from the West realized that he had wronged this little brown maiden
with a homely face and the beautiful body as she never had been wronged before. And he
felt sorry, infinitely so.

When they stopped before the door of her house, he got out to open the door for her.

I am sorry, was all he said.

There was a world of regret in the eyes she turned on him.

For what? she asked in a tired voice. You have just been yourself like other men. He
winced.

And with a weary smile she passed within.

ANALYSIS:

The short story, Desire by Paz Latorena is about a woman who longed to be loved and
valued for who she is, not for what she have or could give. Despite his ugliness, she was blessed
with a body that every man could desire. This makes it difficult for her to experience pure love.

The story was plain and simple; the words used by the author were easily understood by
the reader. Yet it provides the readers with an impact. The story was a morality tale, but the
events provide reality.

The author succeeded in bringing reader with a simple yet meaningful story about the
difference of love and desire. She captured the heart of every reader, especially women in
implying the goodness of being loved. It tells the reader that earthly desires taint the purity of
mans intention to love. In the story, it is perceived that because of mans sinful desires, he
becomes ugly and dreaded by woman. Also, it tells the reader that earth unveils very material
thing that we should avoid, and it conveys the warning that we should be careful in looking at
things, for one might have mistaken it and get hurt.

The story wad intended for readers to be aware of how sinful desire breaks a heart and
could possibly bring damage to a relationship.

As I read the story, I was captivated by how the author narrates it plainly. Hr words
appealed to the readers in a natural way that it didnt seem obvious that it was intended to
tickle the morality of the readers. The conversation used was also simple, thus giving a story a
clearer view. Also, I felt the sadness and frustration of the character for being desired and not
loved by men. I could easily relate to her feelings of emptiness and loneliness and I understood
why she acted that way. Also, I feel sorry for her and wished there would be a better ending
for her. Yet though, I had predicted that that was impossible.

The story, being narrative in style used exaggeration in describing the characters and
some sequence and events. For instance, the lines From her neck to her feet she was perfect
and Her hips seemed to have stolen the curve of the crescent moon were exaggerated in
form. Also, the author made use metaphorical comparisons of the characters attributes.

Like what I predicted, the ending of the story didnt turn out to be favorable for the
character which makes it realistic.
Desire by Paz Latorena: An Analysis
(In which beauty and love are redefined.)

***

Paz Latorenas Desire was a powerful representation of social issues and evocative of
peoples tendency to value external beauty over whats within. It was full of emotional
waves rising, falling, intensifying then pacifying. The manner of narration was simple; the
omniscient narrator told the story directly, fluidly. The characters are unnamed only the
personal pronouns he and she are indicatives of their identity, perhaps signifying the
universality of the experience that it happens or could happen to any male or female. This
generality didnt affect the narration, however. The picture the story painted was
nonetheless vivid.

The central theme of the story is the title itself desire. By definition, the word falls under
two shades of meaning. The first one is an intense wanting for something while the other is
refers to a strong sexual appetite. Latorena remarkably presented these two facets of
desire through the story of a woman whose physical appearance was both a gift and a
curse.
She was homely. 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 its thick lips, was a long, straight gash across her face made angular by her
unusually big jaws.
But nature, as if ashamed of her meanness in fashioning the face, moulded a body of
unusual beauty. From her neck to her small feet, she was perfect. Her bust was full, her
breast rose up like twin roses in full bloom. Her waist was slim as a young girl's, her hips
seemed to have stolen the curve of the crescent moon. Her arms were shapely, ending in
small hands with fine, tapering fingers that were the envy of her friends. Her legs with their
trim ankles reminded one of those lifeless things seen in shop windows displaying the
latest silk stockings.

Her face is nowhere close to a dream. But her body was a source of exotic aesthetic
qualities. Which she hates, and with substantial reasons.
But she hated her body--hated that gift which Nature, in a fit or remorse for the wrong
done to her face, had given her. She hated her body because it made men look at her with
an unbeautiful light in their eyes--married eyes, single eyes.
She hates the body because of its effect on men. She hates it for it seemed to own her, and
not the other way around, because nothing else about her mattered to men the same way
that her body does. Men see her as a source of their desire the desire to take that
heavenly ensemble of curves and flesh.
Men looked at her face and turned their eyes away; they looked at her body and were
enslaved. They forgot the broad masculine forehead, the unpleasant mouth, the aggressive
jaws. All they had eyes for was that body, those hips that had stolen the curve of the
crescent moon.
Latorena exposed mens vulnerability in this part of the story. She presents them in an
almost misandrist way generalizing them into a pack of hormonally-enslaved creatures. It
could have been controversial considering the conservative era when the story was
written. Her generalization of men as being enthralled beautifully carved bodies was
manifested by her usage of single eyes and married eyes.

This changed the perspective of the protagonist as regards to men as far as her body is
concerned. She decides to hide her physique with the hopes of extinguishing the
unbeautiful light it cast from the mens eyes. She starts wearing loose dresses then. And
she succeeded. But she still has one unfulfilled desire the desire to be loved. For now the
men no longer care for her. Without the body they adore, she was nothing but a homely
face and a mass of unshapely flesh.

Thus the two desires were manifested. The sexual desire was embodied by the general
male population while the feeling of intense wanting was symbolized by the protagonists
desire for true love. In the modern society, it is still surprisingly happening, and with
alarming intensity at times. For the women were known for their vulnerability and
romanticism and men for their infidelity and idealism. It was an interesting Venn diagram
showing that over time, the difference between the two sexes havent changed much, as
also reflected by other literary works such as The Scent of Apples by Bienvenido Santos.
. . . Twenty years ago our women were nice, they were modest, they wore their hair long,
they dressed proper and went for no monkey business. They were natural, they went to
church regular, and they were faithful." He had spoken slowly, and now in what seemed
like an afterthought, added, "It's the men who ain't."
Women, on the other hand, were usually presented as the waiting character as shown by
classic romantic tales depicting a lady in distress waiting to be rescued by her knight in
shining armor, or the slave girl dreaming for Prince Charming. Latorenas protagonist was a
waiting character, too. And while she was, she wrote and scribbled and her works found
their way to a publication, and eventually captured the attention of a man from the West.
They had a brief epistolary correspondence, for they soon decided to meet personally. Of
course the man was shocked to see her. But he soon grew comfortable in her company due
to her wit and sensibility. They quickly established a friendship that the homely girl
enjoyed thinking that her appearance meant little, if anything to the man.

It was in their third meeting when she decides to reveal her hidden beauty, thinking that it
would also matter little to him because he tells her he likes her. She is very confident that
this man could be trusted. When he sees her, hes in total awe. But he quickly regains his
composure that gave the homely woman more faith in him.
She heaved in a deep sigh. She was right. She had found a man to whom her body mattered
little if anything at all. She need not take warning. He had learned to like her for herself.
However, it's their fourth (and most probably the last) meeting, the woman again displays
the body that cause men to be enslaved. And this time, she gets the biggest surprise the
shattering of a dream.
I I love he stammered after some moment, as if impelled by an irresistible force.
Then he stopped. . .
The small eyes that slanted at the corners were almost beautiful with a tender, soft light as
she turned them on hi. So he loved her. Had he learned not only to like her but to love her?
For herself. And the half finished confession found an echo in the heart of the woman who
was starved for love.

Yes there was a pleading note in her voice.

He swallowed hard. I love. Your body. He finished with a thick voice: And the blue eyes
flared with the dreaded, hateful light. . .
Beauty was one of the ubiquitous themes in literature as manifested by Edgar Allan
Poes To Helen and Anacreons Beauty is a Womans Weapon, among others. Both show the
significance of beauty and their admiration to a beautiful woman. Latorena, however,
depicted beauty as an instrument of disillusionment and a bifacial thing. It wouldnt have
the same interesting dramatic impact had the protagonist possessed both an attractive
countenance and physique. Its the imperfection of the character that rendered beauty to
the work.

Another important factor worth mentioning was the storys being a transition literature.
The presence of the White man, presumably an American, symbolized the Westernization
of aesthetic standards, which is also currently predominant as shown by the predilection of
people to admire attractive exteriors and faades various types of media. Latorena, didnt
just show one period of time, but her work was somewhat of a clairvoyant nature,
extending to the present era when Exuperian philosophy of looking at real beauty was
hardly adhered to.

As a woman I sympathize with the protagonist in a sense that I also find it unacceptable for
men or society to see women as sexual objects. However, I think that it's also wrong to
generalize men as evil just because they admire physical beauty even if some of them may
have the tendency to inappropriately ogle women. I just can't find the reason to put one
man's fault to another.

I think that it's also helpful that more and more women embrace themselves for who they
are regardless of their color, shape or sizes because these women create a venue for self
acceptance. It's just a matter of choice whether to join the club or to wallow and blame the
world for what you don't have since it's inevitable to have some flaws. Whether a person
opts to see a half empty or half full cup is ultimately their choice.

24FEB2012

(Short Story) Desire by: Paz Latorena

(Reaction) Half full or Half empty? by: Teacher Kitty

Latorena's female character resound a cry for women to be loved for who they are and not
for their bodies. The protagonist is a product of nature's irony giving her a homely face and
a body of absolute beauty, "Hers was a body men would gladly have gone to hell for." She
struggles to be accepted and "be loved as other women were loved".

It would be easy to identify this woman as a victim since "men look at her with unbeautiful
light in their eyes---married eyes, single eyes". This unfair treatment moved her into
rebellion of intentionally disfiguring herself behind long and wide dresses to hide her body
from the eyes of men until all they had left was "pity for a homely face and a shapeless mass
of flesh". It pleased her for a while but was soon replaced by feelings of isolation because
"she was a woman and she wanted to be loved and to love".

However, I think that women shouldn't feel like victims of their reality. The protagonist
may have thought that hiding her body was her rebellion but I think that she couldn't
accept who she is or what she has since it didn't really make her happy. She wanted more
from life but she couldn't really get anything more from it as she chose writing as
companion for her lonely nights over real, live people.

Through these published little lyrics and sketches her heart spoke of her dreams, longings,
and bitterness for she was "one who sees all the weaknesses and stupidities of men". With
these kinds of thoughts we could see that she has little sense of humor for men's faults. She
sees "all faults" and none of the good things. She blames the world for what it cannot give
her but she doesn't make any effort to extend herself either. She made no attempts to make
friends even with women. She didn't see her own fault for being in the lonely situation she
was in.

Luck struck when she met with a fan of her writing. They met again repeatedly. He liked
her, for she was a good company, doesn't care much for convention and he found her very
interesting. With this, "pleasant thoughts began to fill her mind. Had she at last found
someone who liked her sincerely?" The thought of being considered as a friend who
understood him made her happy for it was nothing like she had experienced before.

Knowing that he was fond of everything beautiful, she began to fixate about showing him
that "she was not entirely devoid of beauty". She told herself that his aesthetic would be
pleased but the value of their friendship will remain because he learned to like her for who
she is despite her homeliness. So she decided to let her shapely dresses out of the old trunk.
But I think that behind these "friendly" thoughts, she was hoping for more attention since
the idea of showing him what she's got "simply obsessed her". I don't think a woman with
platonic intentions towards a man would be so obsessed to show her beauty. This woman
craved compliments, attention or even admiration that's why she was so fixated about it.

He complimented her beauty on the first night that he saw her hidden beauty and since he
quickly changed the course of conversation, she started contemplate that "she had found a
man to whom her body mattered little if anything at all." She felt safer and believed "he had
learned to like her for herself" But she has forgotten the truth that he already esteemed her
even before meeting her. She was so conscious about him liking her for herself but she
couldn't even come to terms with herself. It's as if her value lies in what other people or
this man in particular thought of her.

She did not feel the need to hide her body anymore and so she chose to continue showing
her figure through another shapely dress when they met again. "His eyes lighted up when
they rested on her, but whether it was the unbeautiful light that she dreaded so much, she
could not determine for it quickly disappeared. No, it could not be the unbeautiful light. He
liked her for herself. This belief she treasured fondly." Here we can see that she's choosing
not to take offense at him because she's hoping for acceptance.

I think that the fact that she can choose not to take offense from this man means she's also
capable of not taking offense from the people around her and therefore choose not to be
lonely by making friends and acquaintances since her isolation was self imposed. All she
needed was to make a choice. If she chose to be alone and hide a part of herself then she
can also choose to get out of it.

It didn't take long for her to find fault in this new friend as she "found him staring at her...at
her body" during chapel visit out in the country. But what really shook her dreams and left
it in shambles was his confession: "I love...your body". He apologized when he noticed the
pain inflicted but she has raised her walls almost instantly saying, "For what? You have just
been yourself...like other men."

Again, she had chosen to be the victim and take offense not considering that this friend is
from a different culture. He was "a man with white blood in his veins". Perhaps in his
country it wasn't a crime to be brutally honest or be vocal with their thoughts. I would also
consider the fact that he was already comfortable with her and "she didn't care much for
convention" anyway. But alas, it was of no use. She doesn't want to think of anything but
her pain even if he tried to reconcile.

If there's something this woman greatly lacked, it wasn't physical beauty but intrapersonal
and interpersonal skills. She couldn't entirely accept herself and she wallowed for years.
She couldn't forgive people who hurt her feelings. She couldn't forgive her friend even if he
had but one mistake. Considering his feelings or position was out of the picture. It was just
her pain that mattered. She felt violated and that was it. There was no redemption for any
man. In the end, it was the woman who turned her back to a chance at friendship