Quotes by Dejan Stojanovic

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Dejan Stojanoviæ was born in Pec, Kosovo (the former Yugoslavia), in 1959. Although a lawyer by education, he has never practiced law and instead became a journalist. He is a poet, essayist, philosopher, and businessman and published six critically acclaimed books of poetry in Serbia: "Circling," "The Sun Watches the Sun," "The Sign and Its Children," "The Shape," "The Creator," and "Dance of Time."

In 1986, as a young writer, he was recognized among 200 writers at the Bor (former Yugoslavia) Literary Festival. He also received the prestigious "Rastko Petrovic" Award from the Society of Serbian Writers for his book of interviews with major European and American artists and writers.

In addition to poetry and prose, he has worked as a correspondent for the Serbian weekly magazine "Pogledi" ("Views"). His book of interviews from 1990 to 1992 in Europe and America, entitled Conversations, included interviews with several major American writers, including Nobel Laureate Saul Bellow, Charles Simic, and Steve Tesic.

He has been living in Chicago since 1990.

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For a moment at least, be a smile on someone else’s face.

Before the first before and after the last after, there is night waiting.
You are not what you are; you are darkness looking for light within.
Every star was once darker than the night, before it awoke.
Perfection seems sterile; it is final, no mystery in it; it's a product of an assembly line.
When all is lost, there is still a memory.
Every man needs his Siren to check his courage and strength when he hears her song in his travels through the unknown.
Based on the law of probability, everything is possible because the sheer existence of possibility confirms the existence of impossibility.
Serious affairs and history are carefully laid snares for the uninformed.
Creators of history always play with our impotence and our ignorance.
I wanted to write the most beautiful poem But that is impossible; The world has written its own.
Cosmos is God, who whispered the syllable of life.
Life is only a flicker of melted ice.
Stars are only the rain of the Absolute.
God is a cloud from which rain fell.
Darkness does not age; nothing is always nothing.
In the essence of truth lies deceit. Deceit dispels the boredom of the Absolute.
Absolute is a game with only one player where Absolute forgets itself so it would have a reason to fulfill the motion while returning.
Omnipotence and omniscience are the end of power and knowledge.
Everything and nothing are the same in the Absolute.
Procreation annihilates eternity.
Existence is the end of endless eternity without a beginning or an end.
Unborn eternity does not die; existence is dying and falls asleep in the eternity beyond existence.
Eternity is a glorious word but eternity is ice.
Knighthood lies above eternity; it doesn’t live off fame, but rather deeds.
Our eternity is not real; it resembles us; it is our own invention; its scent is vanity.
When following God, Zero we never find.
Infinity is the end. End without infinity is but a new beginning.
The world is God’s salvation.
Sun is a hearthstone, a merry-go-round of extinguished hearthstones.
Universe is the Sun watching its own self.
The world is a fairy tale; we are its guardians.
Two forces create eternity – a fairy tale and a dream from the fairy tale.
God is busy and has no time for you.
Get close to grass and you’ll see a star.
Arrival in the world is really a departure and that, which we call departure, is only a return.
The same word we love and hate, leaves in different directions, taking different paths.
Through words to the meaning of thoughts with no words.
Different languages, the same thoughts; servant to thoughts and their masters.
How many unuttered words died in the heads of those for whom a word was too expensive.
Everybody talks, but there is no conversation.
We hear only our own voices, still echoes returning to our emptiness.
When the long bygone Lee Po wanted to say something, he could do it with only a few words.
We forget old stories, but those stories remain the same.
How alive is thought, invisible, yet without thought there is no sight.
The deeper thought is, the taller she becomes.
A smiling lie is a whirlwind, easy to enter, but hard to escape.
Truth is hard-hearted and unrelenting, too clear, precise; a lie is much more imaginative.
In the lie of truth lies the truth.
Teaching others, he corrected himself.
He did not waste time in a vain search for a place in history.
After Homer and Dante, is a whole century of creating worth one Shakespeare?
How does one say something new and not retell?
Either all lights are turned off or one inner light is missing.
He did not profess to anybody how to reach others without professing.
You not only are hunted by others, you unknowingly hunt yourself.
Do not look too far for you will see nothing.
Either you will be you or you will not be at all.

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