Believing in accidents is like believing in miracles--both presuppose that God does not know the future. - José Rizal

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Believing in accidents is like believing in miracles--both presuppose that God does not know the future.

English
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About José Rizal

José Rizal (June 19 1861 – December 30 1896) or known as José Protacio Rizal Mercado y Alonso Realonda was a Filipino nationalist, doctor, writer, and polymath whose works and martyred death made him a hero of the Philippine Revolution. His mother was Teodora Alonso and his father is Francisco Mercado. Rizal studied highschool at Ateneo De Manila University and then went to University of Santo Tomas in Manila. He did his post graduate work at the University of Madridin 1882. He was a prolific writer who produced many influential works in different genres. His most notable works were his two novels Noli Me Tangere, published in 1887 and El Filibusterismo, published in 1891, which exposed the injustices of Spanish rule and inspired nationalism. Since he was still young he grew up in a cultured home, with a sizeable library. He learned to read and write. It was his mother who introduced him into the world of books and literature until then he started his literary works and poems that is well known in the Philippines He was killed by execution by the Spanish Colonial Government on December 30, 1896 at the age of 35 in Bagumbayan, Manila, for the crime of rebellion after the Philippine Revolution broke out, which was inspired by his writings.

Also Known As

Alternative Names: Dimasalang Laong Laan José P. Rizal José Protasio Rizal José Protasio Rizal-Mercado y Alonso-Realonda
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Additional quotes by José Rizal

He who knows the surface of the earth and the topography of a country only through the examination of maps..is like a man who learns the opera of Meyerbeer or Rossini by reading only reviews in the newspapers. The brush of landscape artists Lorrain, Ruysdael, or Calame can reproduce on canvas the sun's ray, the coolness of the heavens, the green of the fields, the majesty of the mountains...but what can never be stolen from Nature is that vivid impression that she alone can and knows how to impart--the music of the birds, the movement of the trees, the aroma peculiar to the place--the inexplicable something the traveller feels that cannot be defined and which seems to awaken in him distant memories of happy days, sorrows and joys gone by, never to return

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Fame to be sweet must resound in the ears of those we love, in the atmosphere of the land that will guard our ashes. Fame should hover over our tomb to warm with its heat the chill of death, so that we may not be completely reduced to nothingness, that something of us may survive.

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