Quotes by Dejan Stojanovic

Neruda had his first dream, First meeting with the Moon and the Sun In sunny La Mancha, hiding in his heart,Where he learned how to sing like a nightingale.

They read a little bit, write a little, and especially agree with themselves on important moves, important information, important awards, important writers that they plan to enthrone forever in history through a variety of memberships and numerous prizes awarded under the influence of top bureaucrats who know everything, not only about literature, but also about secret conspiracies, the Masons that lurk in every corner to crucify someone, steal someone’s soul and sell it to an unknown devil, about whom only the chief bureaucrat possesses secret knowledge that he doesn’t share; about history, ghosts, missing continents; about who said what to whom in confidence.

Is my victory real, does the winner adorned with a laurel wreath ask this question? Do I deserve victory or did I steal it from someone who is more worthy of victory?

Bureaucracy is a huge beast; deeply rooted, it exists even among artists; it’s an almost losing battle against it.

Everything is much easier in the half-blind and half-deaf world of modern giants that seduce processions of the blind into the world of great emptiness. In their sky the stars shine and their names live in the parallel and independently of their work.

Marquez was not born in Colombia.He was born in Macondo, And his Macondo is his La Mancha.

Quixote shines from Lorca and Picasso, From Dalí and El Greco, From the gloomy View of Toledo. He was born before Cervantes.

It is enough to write a few lines about tanks in the streets in some sad country, about a clear injustice, which requires no description; it is enough to move from one side to another, to satisfy someone’s taste, the need of the moment, the need for “big” games to take a peek into everything and to prove everything with cheap opinions formed almost on command, almost as a recipe of measured pain to resolve the crisis, to extinguish the pain based on a few words that don’t change anything except that they flatter vanity and a misguided interest in all dimensions of life and creation, in the air that is being poisoned by smoke from cars, smoke from the television screens, the smoke curtains of politicians, left and right, the smoke of films and pop culture, smokescreens of intelligence that finds an explanation for all this, makes up theories, finds justification for the schizophrenic decisions of the new rulers, for wars, agreements, contracts; finds justification for obedience, for the sale of beliefs under the disguise of conviction, for several awards, for a few moments of illusion in the hocus-pocus world where the truth does not interest anyone anymore, except for ways for lies to be packaged and sold as the greatest truth with the help of big intellectuals that will find a good argument, a good defense and justification for everything, since everything becomes much easier, if a hoax is supported by “scientific” evidence.

Almost as a rule, political dissidents were writers.

It is not important what happens where; Where we fall or rise, What we conquer or lose, How big or small we are.

“You mark and celebrate errors, transforming failures into successes.”

“Accidents are not accidents but precise arrivals at the wrong right time.”

“Without space, there is no time.”

“He did not waste time in a vain search for a place in history.”

“God is busy and has no time for you.”

“It is futile to spend time telling stories about the fleetness of each day.”

“It is vain futility to analyze the algebra of time.”

“Nature is an outcry, unpolished truth; the art—a euphemism—tamed wilderness.”

“Words rich in meaning can be cheap in sound effects.”

“I am the shore and the ocean, awaiting myself on both sides.”