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

Love is almost never simple.
Too often, feelings arrive too soon, waiting for thoughts that often come too late.
Our desire to say more grows bigger and what to say about it, except that saying is not always about saying, growing is not always about growing.
A big desire is not enough to meet the expectations of lost dreams.
To transform a grimace into a sound sounds impossible, yet it is possible to transform a vision into music, to go outside an enslaved personality, to become impersonal by transforming into sand, into water, into light.
There can be no forced inspiration.
Although all days are equally long regardless of the season, some days are long not only seasonally but by rewards they offer.
There is a moonlight note in the Moonlight Sonata; there is a thunder note in an angry sky.
Sound unbound by nature becomes bounded by art.
There is no competition of sounds between a nightingale and a violin.
Art is apotheosis; often, the complaint of beauty.
Nature is an outcry, unpolished truth; the art—a euphemism—tamed wilderness.
If birth is a manifestation of life, death is another.
Every thought about death takes a moment of life away.
History will be erased in the universal purgatory.
Dreams are our only geography—our native land.
Even great men bow before the Sun; it melts hubris into humility.
He had an answer to almost everything and he retired at an early age.
A word into the silence thrown always finds its echo somewhere where silence opens hidden lexicons.
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.
They will smile, as they always do when they plan a major attack late in the night.
He tries to find the exit from himself but there is no door.
Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. Is that all?
My feelings are too loud for words and too shy for the world.
There is another alphabet, whispering from every leaf, singing from every river, shimmering from every sky.
I fly through memory to find a newborn love.
Trying too hard to be too good, even when trying to be bad, is too good for the bad, too bad for the good.
To accomplish the perfect perfection, a little imperfection helps.
Entering a cell, penetrating deep as a flying saucer to find a new galaxy would be an honorable task for a new scientist interested more in the inner state of the soul than in outer space.
Senses empower limitations, senses expand vision within borders, senses promote understanding through pleasure.
Without pleasure there is no sight or measure.
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.
Great poets are great copy editors.
There is no born lover, there is no born Don Juan, for we are all lovers.
To dream on occasion is not dreaming; to love on occasion is not love.
There is something perfect to be found in the imperfect: the law keeps balance through the juxtaposition of beauty, which gains perfection through nurtured imperfection.
Everything that looks too perfect is too perfect to be perfect.
We love the imperfect shapes in nature and in the works of art, look for an intentional error as a sign of the golden key and sincerity found in true mastery.
Oblivion cures the old wounds.
Fly without wings; dream with open eyes.
In trying to be perfect, he perfected the art of anonymity.
If an ancient man saw planes two thousand years ago, he would've thought they were birds or angels from another world or messengers from other planets.
When there is noise and crowds, there is trouble; when everything is silent and perfect, there is just perfection and nothing to fill the air.
Why poetry, you ask? Because of life, I answer.
Possible impossibility emerges from an impossible possibility, or possibly, impossible possibility blooms from the impossibly possible impossibility.
Possible is more a matter of attitude, a matter of decision, to choose among the impossible possibilities, when one sound opportunity becomes a possible solution.
Those who hate rain hate life.
Nothing reminds us of an awakening more than rain.
Pretense cannot sustain blind power.
Courage is more important than to be deceived by shallow victory waiting for a delayed defeat.
Dream by making and make by dreaming.
Busy with the ugliness of the expensive success we forget the easiness of free beauty lying sad right around the corner, only an instant removed, unnoticed and squandered.
Since nothing is absolute, there is no absolute silence, only an appearance of temporary peace.
Since there is no real silence, silence will contain all the sounds, all the words, all the languages, all knowledge, all memory.
Get out, but don't cause unneeded accidents.
If unjustified, ambition kills value, eats its own life, kills someone else's desire to fly, cuts their wings, sucks their air.
There is only as much space, only as much time, only as much desire, only as many words, only as many pages, only as much ink to accept all of us at light-speed hurrying into the Promised Land of oblivion that is waiting for us sooner or later.
The most complicated skill is to be simple.
To say more while saying less is the secret of being simple.

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