Quotes about dejan-stojanovic

I recreate myself that is my only power.

The world is a fairy tale we are its guardians.

A versifier’s poem is born by the sound a poet’s sound is born by the poem.

The world of numbers and words is odd. A number is the only word that doesn’t lie and words can be very deceitful they create the illusion that a large number hides a great word.

With me: one minus one = one with you: it’s zero. Here lies the only difference.

You are not what you are You are darkness Looking for light within.

There is a moonlight note in the Moonlight Sonata there is a thunder note in an angry sky.

Even great men bow before the Sun it melts hubris into humility.

There are countless circles of hell believers never penetrate the ninth circle.

There are many secrets don’t try to resolve them all.

He confided his deepest secret to you be always wary of his secret.

He thought others were small that was his greatness.

Darkness does not age nothing is always nothing

Unborn eternity does not die existence is dying and falls asleep in the eternity beyond existence.

A right word counts the silence a bad word is counted by the page.

A versifier arranges words and rhymes into verses a poet arranges verses and rhymes into meanings.

A versifier arranges sounds a poet arranges meaning in the sounds.

Color is the overpowering of black white – the final victory over black.

They grew they did not talk about growing.

Nothing is inanimate what is the rest is our interpretation.

A versifier passes through the sound sounds go through a poet.

Faith is a question of eyesight even the blind can see that.

The world cannot be translated It can only be dreamed of and touched.

A poem that is itself a name does not yearn for the name of its creator, but shines from its name alone.

A poem does not radiate from the name, but the name emanates from the poem.

The name does not deserve the poem, but the poem deserves the name.

In a real poem a sound does not swallow a letter, but a letter swallows a sound.

Many writers were better before they became famous.

There are literary works that speak for themselves and there are writers who boast through work.

Names do not write poems nor do they create work.

Anyone who writes can be called a writer because they write.

Those who would like to become writers attend courses on writing poetry and prose and analyze their own work and that of other writers in development. Teachers teach them that talent is not required and that anyone, who wants to be a writer, can do it if they only master the technique of writing and master the formulas of the genre that they choose. With a little brain storming ideas written on cards, as well as designs and plans on the table, one can even write a novel in a month. There is no s

What are all these writers fighting for? For their own victory or for the victory of their profession?

Almost as a rule, political dissidents were writers.

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

An unrewarded value is more valuable than a reward with no value.

Knowing how to dream is more important than the story, because the story tells itself.

The length of novels, poems and stories, is measured by the number of missing words; a thousand pages become one, one becomes a thousand.

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.

The purpose of life is life.

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, abo

There are those who speak and those who dream.

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.

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?

There are anonymous poems and poets without poems.

A poem is its own name and cover.

A well paid word deceives them. And what kind of a word is a word that has a price, high or low, which is adjusted to the price of fame, and how, long ago, when it was little appreciated, was it more valuable than it is today with a big price?

Everything passes through the eyes of top bureaucrats who closely watch to ensure that no intruder can enter their ranks and disrupt the order and arrangement of values in which everything is predetermined and where everyone knows their place, everyone’s potential, talent and position in history.

They forget that love is not a science but an inherent state of mind; they forget that sex is practiced by animals without textbooks and that it is not such a secret that requires a complete science, courses and special training. And so impotent, with artificial stars on the ceilings of their rooms, they become the main teachers on the way to the stars.

Good is not always good.

Everything and nothing are the same in the Absolute.

Burning the witch Giordano Bruno is one more wound inflicted on Christ’s body.

To hear never-heard sounds, To see never-seen colors and shapes, To try to understand the imperceptible Power pervading the world; To fly and find pure ethereal substances That are not of matter But of that invisible soul pervading reality. To hear another soul and to whisper to another soul; To be a lantern in the darkness Or an umbrella in a stormy day; To feel much more than know. To be the eyes of an eagle, slope of a mountain; To be a wave understanding the influence of the moon; To be a tr

I lose faith in mathematics, logical and rigid. What with those that even zero doesn’t accept?

To the knights of faith nobody believes.

When the star dies, Its eye closes; tired of watching, It flies back to its first bright dream.

If birth is a manifestation of life, death is another.

Life into death— Life’s other shape, No rupture, Only crossing.

Every thought about death takes a moment of life away.

If we were to understand how important it is to say something and say it well, maybe we wouldn’t write a single word, but that would be tragic.

I wanted to write the most beautiful poem but that is impossible the world has written its own.

To write good poems is the secret of brevity.

There can be no forced inspiration.

A word only writes Its night and ridesIts dream.

You don’t know anything, but I know even less.

Total knowledge is annihilation Of the desire to see, to touch, to feel The world sensed only through senses And immune to the knowledge without feeling.

Omnipotence and omniscience are the end of power and knowledge.

There are too many literati, yet very few are smart; knowledge is acquired far too easily.

Busy with the ugliness of the expensive success We forget the easiness of free beautyLying sad right around the corner, Only an instant removed, Unnoticed and squandered.

You mark and celebrate errors, transforming failures into successes.

Hope without love is hopeless.

To sense the peace of extinguished passionHappiness in not knowing the ultimate knowledge

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

In the essence of truth lies deceit.

In a myriad of ways you tell one truth.

God is a cloud from which rain fell.

Devil and God – two sides of the same face.

Cosmos is God, who whispered the syllable of life.

God is busy and has no time for you.

New Rome will be destroyedBy the attacks of new vandals.God always remains silent.

When following God, Zero we never find.

The world is God's salvation.

Since there is no real silence, Silence will contain all the sounds, All the words, all the languages, All knowledge, all memory.

To risk life to save a smile on a face of a woman or a child is the secret of chivalry.

To hide feelings when you are near crying is the secret of dignity.

It is beautiful to express love and even more beautiful to feel it.

Wherever I go, I meet myself.

I visited many places, Some of them quite Exotic and far away, But I always returned to myself.

Use the wings of the flying Universe, Dream with open eyes; See in darkness.

There is another alphabet, whispering from every leaf, singing from every river, shimmering from every sky.

There is no competition of sounds between a nightingale and a violin.

Words rich in meaning can be cheap in sound effects.

Be aware of the high notes, of the blissful faces and their soft messages, and listen for the silent message of a highly decorated gift.

Heavenly bodies are nests of invisible birds.

To come to nothing through something is the way to outside from both sides.

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

The most complicated skill is to be simple.

The night is still waiting.

Dream by making and make by dreaming.