SELF-LEARNING HOME TASK (SLHT)

Subject : 21st Century Literature from the Philippines and the World Grade: 11 Quarter: 2nd Week: 3
MELC: Identify representative texts and authors from South America Competency Code: EN12Lit-IIa-2

Name: Section: Date:

School: District:

Objective/s:
Knowledge: Recognize different selections and writers from South America
Skills: Examine the given texts to comprehend the theme presented
Values/Attitude: Reflect on the subjects discussed in the text and give personal views

Subject Matter: Representative Texts and Authors from South America

Procedure:
A. READINGS/DISCUSSIONS

SELECTION 1
THE HEN
Clarice Lispector
Translated by Elizabeth Bishop

She was a Sunday hen. She was still alive only because it was not yet 9:00 o’clock.
She seemed calm. Since Saturday she had cowered in a corner of the kitchen. She didn’t look at
anyone, no one looked at her. Even when they had selected her, fingering her intimately and indifferently,
they couldn’t have said whether she was fat or thin. No one would ever have guessed that she had a de-
sire.
So it was a surprise when she opened her little wings, puffed out her breast, and, after two or three
tries, reached the wall of the terrace. For an instant she vacillated – long enough for the cook to scream –
and then she was on the neighbor’s terrace, and from there, by means of another awkward flight, she
reached a tile roof. There she remained like a misplaced weather vane, hesitating, first on one foot, then on
the other. The family was urgently called and, in consternation, saw their lunch standing beside a chimney.
The father of the family, reminding himself of the double obligation of eating and of occasionally taking exer-
cise, happily got into his bathing trunks and resolved to follow the itinerary of the hen. By cautious jumps he
reached the roof, and the hen, trembling and hesitating, quickly picked another direction. The pursuit be-
came more intense. From roof to roof, more than a block of the street was traversed. Unprepared for a
more savage struggle for life, the hen had to decide for herself which routes to take, without any help from
her race. In the young man, however, the sleeping hunter woke up. Lowly as was the prey, he gave a
hunting cry.
Alone in the world, without father or mother, she ran, out of breath, concentrated, mute. Sometimes
in her flight she would stand at bay on the edge of a roof, gasping; while the young man leaped over others
with difficulty, she had a moment in which to collect herself. The she looked so free.
Stupid, timid, and free. Not victorious, the way a rooster in flight would have looked. What was there
in her entrails that made a being of her? The hen is a being. It’s true, she couldn’t be counted on for any-
thing. She herself couldn’t count on herself – the way a rooster believes in his comb. Her only advantage
was that there are so many hens that if one died another would appear at the same moment, exactly like
her, as if it were the same hen.
Finally, at one of the moments when she stopped to enjoy her escape, the young man caught her.
Amid feathers and cries, she was taken prisoner. Then she was carried in triumph, by one wing, across the
roofs and deposited on the kitchen floor with a certain violence. Still dazed, she shook herself a little, cack-
ling hoarsely and uncertainly.
It was then that it happened. Completely overwhelmed, the hen laid an egg. Surprised, exhausted.
Perhaps it was premature. But immediately afterward, as if she had been born for maternity, she looked
like an old, habitual mother. She sat down on the egg and remained that way, breathing, buttoning and un-
buttoning her eyes. Her heart, so small on a plate, made the feathers rise and fall, and filled that which
would never be more than an egg with warmth. Only the little girl was near-by and witnessed everything,
terrified. As soon as she could tear herself away, she got up off the floor and shrieked: “Mama! Mama!
Don’t kill the hen any more! She laid an egg! She likes us!”
Everyone ran to the kitchen again and, silent, stood in a circle around the new mother. Warming her
child, she was neither gentle nor harsh, neither happy nor sad; she was nothing; she was a hen. Which
suggests no special sentiment. The father, the mother, and the daughter looked at her for some time, with-
out any thought whatever to speak of. No one had ever patted the head of a hen. Finally, with a certain
brusqueness, the father decided: “If you have this hen killed, I’ll never eat chicken again in my life!”
“Me too!” the little girl vowed ardently.
The mother shrugged, tired.
Unconscious of the life that had been granted her, the hen began to live with the family. The little girl,
coming home from school, threw down her school-bag and ran to the kitchen without stopping. Once in a
while the father would still remember: “And to think I made her run in that state!” The hen became the
queen of the house. Everyone knew it except the hen. She lived between the kitchen and the kitchen ter-
race, making use of her two capacities: apathy and fear.
But when everyone in the house was quiet and seemed to have forgotten her, she plucked up a little
of the courage left over from her great escape and perambulated the tile floor, her body moving behind her
head, deliberate as in a field, while the little head betrayed her: moving, rapid and vibrant, with the ancient
and by now mechanical terror of her species.
Occasionally, and always more rarely, the hen resembled the one that had once stood plain against
the air on the edge of the roof, ready to make an announcement. At such moments she filled her lungs with
the impure air of the kitchen and, if females had been able to sing, she would not have sung, but she would
have been much more contented. Though not even at these moments did the expression of her empty
head change. In flight, at rest, giving birth, or pecking corn – it was the head of a hen, the same that was
designed at the beginning of the centuries.
Until one day they killed her and ate her and the years went by.

Know that:
Brazilian author Clarice Lispector was born on December 10, 1920 in Tchetchelnik, Ukraine
(Russia) to Jewish emigrants who were fleeing from the pogroms (an organized massacre, especially of
Jews). Traveling by ship, they arrived in Recife, Brazil in 1921, when Clarice was just two months old.
Lispector began writing stories as a young teenager. She wrote lyrically inspirational works, em-
ploying an original use of language and revealing an intense search for understanding the enigmas of
existence, the problems of self and subjectivity as well as identity difference, and the condition of psycho-
logical and spiritual exile. Her short story The Hen was first published in the Summer 1964 issue of The
Kenyon Review.

Guide for Comprehension:

1. Who is the narrator or speaker in the story? Is there an “all-knowing” third person who can reveal
what all the characters are thinking and doing at all times and in all places?

2. Who/What is the main character of the story?

3. To whom can you compare this character? Explain briefly.

4. What role does setting play in the story? Is it an important part of the plot or theme?

5. What does the story say about life?

SELECTION 2
SOMEONE HAS TOUCHED THESE ROSES
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Translated by Genevieve Vullo

Since it is Sunday and it has stopped raining, I think I will bring a bouquet of roses to my grave.
Red and white roses, the ones she grows to make altars and crowns. The gloomy, eerie weather of the
morning had reminded me of the hill where the townspeople abandoned their dead. It is a bare place,
without trees, swept clean except for the few fortunate crumbs that return once the wind has passed. Now
that it has stopped raining, the midday sun should have dried the path up the hill, making it passable. The
sun might now shine on the tomb where my childhood body rests, in the back, now confused, crumbling
between snails and roots.
She is kneeling in front of her saints. She has remained completely engrossed in her prayers since
I stopped moving in the room, after having failed in my first attempt to reach the altar and grab the most
flush and fresh roses. Maybe today I would have been able to do it; but the lantern flickered and she re-
covered from the trance, raised her head, and looked towards the corner of the room where the chair
stood. She must have thought “It’s the wind again,” because something did rustle next to the altar. The
room undulated for a moment, as if the weight of stagnant memories from so long ago had been lifted. I
realized then that I must wait for another opportunity to take the roses. She was fully alert, looking at the
chair. She would have been able to feel the whisper of my hands next to her face. Now I must wait until, in
a moment, she leaves this room and goes to the neighboring bedroom to take the measured and invaria-
ble Sunday siesta. It is possible that then I can leave with the roses so I can come back before she re-
turns to this room and stays, watching the chair.
Last Sunday was harder. I had to wait almost two hours until she fell into a trance. She looked
restless, worried, as if she were tormented by the certainty that suddenly her loneliness in the house had
become less intense. She paced around the room many times with the bouquet of roses, before abandon-
ing it at the altar. Then she went out to the passageway, looked back inside, and made her way to the
neighboring bedroom. I knew that she was looking at the lantern. And after, when she passed by the door
once again and I saw her in the brightness of the corridor with her dark sweater and pink stockings, she
looked to me as if she were still the same girl who, forty years ago, leaned over my bed in this very same
room, and said: “Now that they have propped open your eyelids, your eyes are shiny and hard.” She was
the same, as if no time had passed since that remote afternoon in August when the women brought her to
the room, showed her the body, and told her: “Cry. He was like a brother to you.” She leaned against the
wall, crying, obeying, still soaked from the rain.
For the past three or four Sundays I have been trying to reach the roses, but she has remained
vigilant in front of the altar. She watches over them with an unfamiliar, startling diligence that never be-
fore, in her twenty years in this house, has she experienced. Last Sunday, when she went to look for the
lantern, I managed to put together a bouquet of the best roses. In no other moment had I been so close to
achieving my goal. But, when I was about to return to my chair, I once again heard footsteps in the pas-
sageway. I quickly put the roses back in their place on the altar. Then I saw her appear in the doorframe
with the lantern raised.
She was wearing her dark sweater and pink stockings, but her face glowed with a revelation. In
that moment she did not look like the woman who, for twenty years, grew roses in the orchard. Instead,
she looked like the same girl from that August afternoon that was brought to the neighboring bedroom to
change her clothes, and now returned with a lantern, fat and old, forty years later.
My shoes still have a hard crust of mud from that afternoon, despite drying for twenty years next to
a flameless fireplace. One day I went to look for them. This was after they closed the doors, took down
the bread and bouquet of aloe vera from the threshold, and moved out the furniture. All of the furniture,
except the corner chair that has been a place for me to rest all this time. I knew my shoes had been put to
dry, and that they were simply forgotten when they abandoned the house. So I went to look for them.
She returned many years later. So much time had passed that the musky scent of the room had
mixed with the smell of dust and the dry, tiny reek of insects. I was alone in the house, sitting in the cor-
ner, waiting. I had learned how to distinguish the murmur of the decomposing wood from the flutter of air
turning old in the closed bedrooms. Then she arrived. She had stopped at the door with a suitcase in
hand, a green hat and the same cotton sweater that she has not taken off since. She was still a girl. She
had not begun to get fat, nor did her ankles bulge beneath her stockings like they did now. I was covered
in dust and cobwebs when she opened the door and, somewhere in the room, the cricket that had been
singing for twenty years fell silent. But despite this, despite the cobwebs and dust, the sudden silence of
the cricket, and the old age of the newcomer, I recognized in her the same girl who, that stormy August
afternoon, came with me to knock down nests in the stable. As she stood in the doorway with her suitcase
in hand and her green hat, it seemed as if suddenly she were about to yell, to say the same thing that she
had when she found me face up on the grass by the stable, still clinging to the rung of the broken ladder.
When she opened the door completely, the hinges creaked and the thin dust of the roof slid down in
gusts, as if someone had begun to hammer the ridge of the roof. So she wavered in and out of clarity in
the doorframe. Then, leaning half of her body into the room, in the tone of someone calling to a sleeping
person she said: “Boy! Boy!” I remained still in the seat, rigid, with my feet stretched out.
I thought that she came only to see the room, but she went on to live in the house. She aired out
the room. It was as if she opened her suitcase and from it surged a familiar musk smell. The others
brought her furniture and clothing in trunks. She alone had taken the smells of the room with her. Twenty
years later she brought them all back, hung them up in their places and rebuilt the little altar; exactly the
same as before. Simply her presence was enough to restore what the restless rigor of time had de-
stroyed. Since that day, she eats and sleeps in the adjacent room, but she spends her days in this room,
speaking in silence with the saints. In the afternoon she sits in the rocking chair next to the door and
mends clothes. She helps those who come to buy flowers. She always rocks as she mends. And when
someone comes for a bouquet of roses, she puts the coin in the corner of the handkerchief that she keeps
tied at her waist. Without fail she says: “Take the ones on the right, those on the left are for the saints.”
For twenty years she has sat in that chair, mending her things, rocking, looking at the other chair.
It is as if she no longer takes care of the boy with whom she shared her childhood afternoons. Instead,
she cares for the disabled grandson that is here, and has been sitting in the corner since the grandmother
was five years old.
It is possible that now, when she once again begins to nod off, I can get closer to the roses. If I
manage to do it, I will go to the hill and put them over my tomb. Then I will return to my chair to wait for
the day when she no longer comes to this room, and the noises in the neighboring rooms cease.
On this day there will be a transformation. I will have to leave the house once again to tell some-
one that the woman with the roses, the one that lives alone in the ruined house, needs four men to bring
her to the hill. Then, once and for all, I will be alone in the room. But, in exchange, she will be satisfied.
On this day she will learn that it was not an invisible wind that touched the roses on her altar every Sun-
day.

Know that:

Gabriel José de la Concordia García Márquez (born on March 06, 1927 in Aracataca, Mag-
dalena, Colombia) was a Colombian novelist, short-story writer, screenwriter and journalist. García
Márquez, familiarly known as "Gabo" in his native country, was considered one of the most signifi-
cant authors of the 20th century. In 1982, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature.

He wrote many acclaimed non-fiction works and short stories, but is best-known for his nov-
els, such as “One Hundred Years of Solitude” (1967) and “Love in the Time of Cholera” (1985). His
works have achieved significant critical acclaim and widespread commercial success, most notably
for popularizing a literary style labeled as magical realism, which uses magical elements and
events in order to explain real experiences. Most of his works express the theme of solitude.

Someone has Touched These Roses (1952) is from the short-story collection Ojos de per-
ro azul (Eyes of a Blue Dog). This anthology contains some of the earliest short stories written by
Garcia Marquez, which was published in 1974 but the shorts stories within were all written before
1955. Along this anthology one can see Marquez's style changing, from his early stories settle in a
haunting supernatural world to a more subtle kind of magic, one that almost feels like real life.
Guide for Comprehension:

Complete the timeline below to fully understand the story.

1. 5. His friend had lived in his house for twenty years,

growing roses, sitting in the chair, mending her things,
rocking, looking at the other chair.

7.
3.

6.
2. He was buried in a bare place, without trees,
swept clean except for the few fortunate crumbs
that return once the wind has passed.

4. 8. After 20 years of staying in the house, she now

cared for the disabled grandson that was there, and
had been sitting in the corner since the grandmother
was five years old.

SELECTION 3
THE DISK
Jorge Luis Borges
Translated by Andrew Hurley

I am a woodcutter. My name doesn’t matter. The hut I was born in, and where I’m soon to die, sits at the
edge of the woods. They say these woods go on and on, right to the ocean that surrounds the entire world;
they say that wooden houses like mine travel on that ocean. I wouldn’t know; I’ve never seen it.
I’ve not seen the other side of the woods, either. My older brother, when we were boys he made me
swear that between the two of us we’d hack away at this woods till there wasn’t a tree left standing. My brother
is dead now, and now it’s something else I’m after, and always will be. Over in the direction where the sun
goes down there’s a creek I fish in with my hands. There are wolves in the woods, but the wolves don’t scare
me, and my ax has never failed me. I’ve not kept track of how old I am, but I know I’m old—my eyes don’t see
anymore. Down in the village, which I don’t venture into anymore because I’d lose my way, everyone says I’m
a miser, but how much could a woodcutter have saved up?
I keep the door of my house shut with a rock so the snow won’t get in. One evening I heard heavy, drag-
ging footsteps and then a knock. I opened the door and a stranger came in. He was a tall, elderly man all
wrapped up in a worn-out old blanket. A scar sliced across his face. The years looked to have given him more
authority than frailty, but even so I saw it was hard for him to walk without leaning on his stick. We exchanged
a few words I don’t recall now. Then finally the man said:
“I am without a home, and I sleep wherever I can. I have wandered all across Saxony.”
His words befitted his age. My father always talked about “Saxony”; now people call it England.
There was bread and some fish in the house. While we ate, we didn’t talk. It started raining. I took some
skins and made him a pallet on the dirt floor where my brother had died. When night came we slept.
It was toward dawn when we left the house. The rain had stopped and the ground was covered with new
snow. The man dropped his stick and he ordered me to pick it up.
“Why should I do what you tell me to?” I said to him.
“Because I am a king,” he answered. I thought he was mad. I picked up the stick and gave it to him. With
his next words, his voice was changed.
 “I am the king of the Secgens. Many times did I lead them to victory in hard combat, but at the hour that
fate decreed, I lost my kingdom. My name is Isern and I am of the line of Odin.”
“I do not worship Odin,” I answered. “I worship Christ.”
He went on as though he’d not heard me.
“I wander the paths of exile, but still I am king, for I have the disk. Do you want to see it?”
He opened his hand and showed me his bony palm. There was nothing in it. His hand was empty. It was
only then that I realized he’d always kept it shut tight. He looked me in the eye.
“You may touch it.”
I had my doubts, but I reached out and with my fingertips I touched his palm. I felt something cold, and I
saw a quick gleam. His hand snapped shut. I said nothing.
“It is the disk of Odin,” the old man said in a patient voice, as though he were speaking to a child. “It has
but one side. There is not another thing on earth that has but one side. So long as I hold it in my hand I shall
be king.”
“Is it gold?” I said.
“I know not. It is the disk of Odin and it has but one side.”
It was then I felt a gnawing to own the disk myself. If it were mine, I could sell it for a bar of gold and
then / would be a king.
“In my hut I’ve got a chest full of money hidden away. Gold coins, and they shine like my ax,” I told the
wanderer, whom I hate to this day. “If you give the disk of Odin to me, I will give you the chest.”
“I will not,” he said gruffly.
“Then you can continue on your way,” I said. He turned away. One ax blow to the back of his head was
all it took; he wavered and fell, but as he fell he opened his hand, and I saw the gleam of the disk in the air. I
marked the place with my ax and I dragged the body down to the creek bed, where I knew the creek was swol-
len. There I dumped his body.
When I got back to my house I looked for the disk. But I couldn’t find it. I have been looking for it for
years.

Know that:
Jorge Francisco Isidoro Luis Borges Acevedo, usually referred to as Jorge Luis Borges, was
born on August 24, 1899, in Buenos Aires, Argentina. He exerted a strong influence on the direction of
literary fiction through his genre-bending metafictions, essays, and poetry. Borges was a founder, and
principal practitioner, of postmodernist literature, a movement in which literature distances itself from
life situations in favor of reflection on the creative process and critical self-examination. With his exem-
plary literary advances and the reflective sharpness of his metaliterature, he has effectively influenced
the destiny of literature.
Due to a hereditary condition, Borges became blind in his late fifties.
The Disk is a 1975 short story that appears in the collection The Book of Sand, written in his last
days — and while blind.

Guide for Comprehension:

1. Is the story believable? Why or why not?

2. What is the point of view used in the story? If the story is narrated using another point of view, what
would the story be like?

3. Does the author appeal to your intellect, imagination, emotion? All three? Explain briefly.

4. What does the disk symbolize?

5. What lesson does the story teach you?

SELECTION 4

When we were kids Know that:

by Mario Benedetti
Mario Benedetti (Mario Orlando
When we were children, Hardy Hamlet Brenno Benedetti Farrugia),
old people were about thirty, born on September 14, 1920 in the town of
a puddle was an ocean, Paso de los Toros in Uruguay, was a promi-
death nent poet, novelist, playwright, short story
did not exist. writer and critic, and, together with Juan
Carlos Onetti, the most important figure of
Later, when boys Uruguayan literature of the second half of
were forty, the 20th century and one of the great names
a pond was an ocean, of the Boom of Latin American literature .
death was only Cultivator of all genres, his work is as
a word, prolific as it is popular; novels such as The
Truce (1960) or Thanks for the Fire (1965)
and when we got married, were adapted for the big screen, and various
the elderly were in their fifties, singers contributed to spread their poetry by
a lake was an ocean, playing their verses.
death was the death Benedetti’s more than 60 volumes of
of others. poems, prose, essays and drama helped
secure a prominent place for Latin America
now veterans in global literature, along with the works of
we have already caught up with the truth Gabriel Garcia Marquez. He died on 17 May
the ocean is finally the ocean 2009 in Montevideo, Uruguay.
but death is beginning to be
ours.

Source: https://www.poemas-del-alma.com/mario-benedetti.htm

Guide for Comprehension:

Read the poem again. Explain the poem by using your own words. You may provide your own experiences
or other people’s experiences to support your explanation.

STANZAS YOUR EXPLANATION

When we were children, / old people

were about thirty, / a puddle was an
ocean, / death / did not exist.

Later, when boys / were forty, / a pond

was an ocean, / death was only / a word,

and when we got married, / the elderly

were in their fifties, / a lake was an
ocean, / death was the death / of others.

now veterans / we have already caught

up with the truth / the ocean is finally
the ocean / but death is beginning to
be / ours.
SELECTION 5

ONE HUNDRED LOVE SONNETS: XVII

Pablo Neruda
Translated by Mark Eisner

I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,

or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as one loves certain obscure things,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries

the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,
and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose
from the earth lives dimly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,

I love you directly without problems or pride:
I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,
except in this form in which I am not nor are you,
so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
so close that your eyes close with my dreams.

Source: https://www.poetryoutloud.org/poem/one-hundred-love-sonnets-xvii/#:~:text=By%20Pablo%20Neruda&text=I%20don't%
20love%20you,the%20 shadow%20and%20the%20soul.

Know that:

Pablo Neruda, is one of the most influential and widely read 20th-century poets of the Americas.
Born Ricardo Eliezer Neftali Reyes y Basoalto on born July 12, 1904, in Parral, Chile , Neruda adopted
the pseudonym under which he would become famous while still in his early teens. Aside from being a
poet, he is also a diplomat, and politician who was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1971.
According to Neruda, “It was through metaphor, not rational analysis and argument, that the mys-
teries of the world could be revealed.”
One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII was originally published in the collection, Cien sonetos de
amor or 100 Love Sonnets in 1959. Neruda published the poem in Argentina in 1959. It was dedicated
to his wife, Matilde. He separated the collection into four sections, morning, afternoon, evening, and
night.

Guide for Comprehension:

1. Why do you think the poet wrote the poem?

2. What is the poet’s attitude towards love?

3. How does it make you feel?

4. What does the poem reveal about the speaker’s character?

5. What is the poet trying to say about life through his poem?
SELECTION 6

NO MORE CLICHÉS
Octavio Paz
Beautiful face
That like a daisy opens its petals to the sun This poem is to you women,
So do you That like a Shahrazade wake up
Open your face to me as I turn the page. Everyday with a new story to tell,
A story that sings for change
Enchanting smile That hopes for battles:
Any man would be under your spell, Battles for the love of the united flesh
Oh, beauty of a magazine. Battles for passions aroused by a new day
Battle for the neglected rights
How many poems have been written to you? Or just battles to survive one more night.
How many Dantes have written to you, Beatrice?
To your obsessive illusion Yes, to you women in a world of pain
To you manufacture fantasy. To you, bright star in this ever-spending universe
To you, fighter of a thousand-and-one fights
But today I won't make one more Cliché To you, friend of my heart.
And write this poem to you.
No, no more clichés. From now on, my head won't look down to a magazine
Rather, it will contemplate the night
This poem is dedicated to those women And its bright stars,
Whose beauty is in their charm, And so, no more clichés.
In their intelligence,
In their character,
Not on their fabricated looks. Source: https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/no-more-clich-s/

Know that:
Octavio Paz, (1914—1998, Mexico City, Mexico) Mexican poet, writer, and diplomat, recognized as
one of the major Latin American writers of the 20th century. He received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1990.
One of Paz’s best-known works was El laberinto de la soledad, which appeared first in 1950 and in English
translation as The Labyrinth of Solitude: Life and Thought in Mexico eleven years later.
Beatrice is a figure in whom Dante Alighieri (Italian poet, and prose writer) created one of the most cel-
ebrated fictionalized women in all of literature.
In the story One Thousand and One Nights, a collection of largely Middle Eastern and Indian stories,
King Shahryar resolved to marry a lady of noble blood every day and have her beheaded the next morning.
Shahrazade, whom the king married, would tell a story during the long night and would stop in the middle of
it. Because the king became interested in the story, he spared her life for one day to finish the story the next
night. This lasted for 1001 nights.

Guide for Comprehension:

What kind of woman, do you think, are being referred in the following lines?
Enchanting smile / Any man would be under your spell, / Example: This woman has looks and beauty that can be
Oh, beauty of a magazine. a model in magazines, that make men dream about her.

Whose beauty is in their charm, / In their intelligence, /

In their character, / Not on their fabricated looks.
That like a Shahrazade wake up / Everyday with a new
story to tell / A story that sings for change
That hopes for battles: … Battle for the neglected
rights / Or just battles to survive one more night.
Yes, to you women in a world of pain / To you, fighter of
a thousand-and-one fights
 B. EXERCISES

Activity 1

Directions: Challenges in life come in different forms. Some are easy to overcome. Some are diffi-
cult to conquer. The texts you have read also present challenges which confronted the characters.
Identify these challenges and give your opinion on how to deal with them. An example is provided.

HOW THE CHARACTER/ HOW YOU WOULD

SELECTION CHALLENGE/S PERSONA RESPOND TO RESPOND TO THE
THE CHALLENGE/S CHALLENGE/S

Example:
The persona does If I were the one who
not care whether those was discriminated, like the
The challenge faced
Still I Rise who discriminate her shoot persona, I would also not
by the persona in this po-
by Maya Angelou em is experiencing discrim- harsh and hurtful words at mind those people be-
her or talk bitter, twisted cause their words won’t
ination and hate because
(a text from the lies about her. She ignores define me as a person. I
of her skin color.
previous SLHT ) them and continues to live would be brave so that I
and rise every single time. can withstand their words.

The Hen

Someone has
Touched These
Roses

The Disk

When we were
kids

One Hundred
Love Sonnets:
XVII

No More Clichés
Activity 2

Directions: Choose one character/persona that you admire the most. Write his/her name inside the
circle. How can you relate to this character/persona? Can you see yourself in him/her? Explain
briefly why you choose him/her. Write your explanation inside the box.

C. ASSESSMENT/APPLICATION/OUTPUTS

Directions: SUM IT UP. Complete the diagram below to summarize everything you’ve known about
the Latin American Literature. Please take note of the guides written at the center.

LATIN AMERICAN LITERATURE

Country

Author

Author’s Most
Notable
Achievement
(Write NONE if not stated)

Sample Literary
Work
Directions: Modified true or false. Read the following statements about the authors carefully and
identify whether these are true or not. On the space provided, write LATIN if true; otherwise,
change the underlined word to make the statement true.

1. Gabriel Garcia Marquez wrote many acclaimed non-fiction works and short stories. His works have
achieved significant critical acclaim and widespread commercial success, most notably for popularizing
a literary style labeled as magical realism.
2. Jorge Luis Borges was one of the most important figure of Uruguayan literature of the second half of
the 20th century and one of the great names of the Boom of Latin American literature .
3. Mario Benedetti exerted a strong influence on the direction of literary fiction through his genre-bending
metafictions, essays, and poetry.
4. Pablo Neruda is a Mexican poet, writer, and diplomat, recognized as one of the major Latin American
writers of the 20th century. He received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1990.
5. Born Ricardo Eliezer Neftali Reyes y Basoalto, Mario Benedetti is one of the most influential and widely
read 20th-century poets of the Americas.
6. Jorge Luis Borges wrote lyrically inspirational works, employing an original use of language and reveal-
ing an intense search for understanding the enigmas of existence, the problems of self and subjectivity
as well as identity difference, and the condition of psychological and spiritual exile.
7. In her work, Clarice Lispector used allegories of great women from literary works to emphasize her
views on how women should be treated.
8. Pablo Neruda published Cien sonetos de amor, a collection of poems with four sections, which was
dedicated to his wife, Matilde.
9. Clarice Lispector’s works secured a prominent place for Latin America in global literature, along with
the works of Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
10. Gabriel Garcia Marquez was considered one of the most significant authors of the 20th century. Most
of his works express the theme of solitude.

D. SUGGESTED ENRICHMENT/REINFORCEMENT ACTIVITY/IES

You may visit https://www.slideshare.net/JoyceAngielynBasco/latin-american-literature-76813431 to

know more about the history of Latin American Literature.
Also, to further your idea about Magical Realism, you may read “A Very Old Man with Enormous
Wings” by Gabriel Garcia Marquez in https://www.ndsu.edu/pubweb/~cinichol/CreativeWriting/323/
MarquezMan withWings.htm.

References:

Payawal-Gabriel, Josefina. World Literature and Communication. Quezon City, Philippines: St. Bernadette Publishing
House Corporation., 2014
https://steemit.com/poem/@anam49/when-we-were-children-a-beautiful-poem-by-mario-benedetti
https://phoneia.com/en/education/mario-benedetti-biography/
https://jwa.org/encyclopedia/article/lispector-clarice
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13450.Gabriel_Garc_a_M_rquez
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/500.Jorge_Luis_Borges
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/jorge-luis-borges
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/pablo-neruda
https://www.britannica.com/topic/The-Thousand-and-One-Nights
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/octavio-paz

Prepared by: Reviewed by: Edited by:

Vershyl A. Mendoza
Dr. Clavel D. Salinas
Danna Lee I. Teleron