Noli and Fili: Musings at the Original Manuscripts

 Finally, I had the rare chance to see, face to face, the original manuscripts of Jose Rizal’s Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo, as well as the original Mi Último Adiós. These were on display at the National Library of the Philippines (NLP), along with other century-old documents and books that shaped the history of the country.

When I entered the gallery hall, the first thing that caught my attention was a portrait painting of Jose Rizal mounted at the far end. I went straight toward it. But before I could get close, I noticed the original manuscripts of Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo displayed inside glass cases. I had goosebumps as I stood there, staring at them. The very books that sparked nationalist ideals during those times were right before me.

I imagined the many long hours Rizal spent thinking and writing, as well as the financial hardships he endured. There must have been uncertainty about whether he could finish and publish his works, especially since he was in Europe at the time. It could only have been his love of country and devotion to human freedom that inspired him to persevere until the end.

In another glass case was the original Mi Último Adiós. It had no title in its original form; it was given one only after Rizal’s death. The poem was written on a small sheet of paper, with handwriting so tiny that all the words could fit. Rizal had hidden it inside a small lamp, which is now displayed at his museum in Fort Santiago. I had seen that same lamp just recently at Fort Santiago.

Beside the two books were facsimile or replica versions of the originals. I flipped through their pages and saw that everything was handwritten. I could only imagine the patience and effort Rizal invested—long days and sleepless nights spent writing hundreds of pages. It made me reflect on my own work. Surrounded by writing tasks in the office, I realized I have little to complain about. I have my computer and countless online tools. Rizal had only his pen and paper. Of course, I do not possess his genius or his passion.

My admiration for Rizal began in elementary school, when I was about nine or eleven years old. It was at that age that I first finished reading a book from cover to cover—a biography of Jose Rizal at my aunt’s house. I was fascinated by his story The Monkey and the Turtle, whose original version I also encountered here, just a few steps from the original Noli. I also remember his story about his lost slippers and the tale of the moth and the lamp. From then on, my desire to understand Rizal began.

Even now, I know I still have much to learn about him, despite having visited his homes in Calamba and Dapitan, Fort Santiago, and Rizal Park, and having read some of his writings.

Now I realize that the more I learn about Rizal, the more I discover how much remains unknown to me. He was young when he died for his country—yet in many ways, he lived a full and meaningful life.