Best 235 quotes of Dejan Stojanovic on MyQuotes

Every star was once darker than the night, before it awoke.

Everything and nothing are the same in the Absolute.

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.

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.

Everything seems impossible And everything seems possible.

Existence is the end of endless eternity without a beginning or an end.

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

For a game, you don’t need a teacher.

Forget decorated generals, tell me about Private Ryan.

From everything, nothing looks to nothing.

From nothing comes everything.

From what you didn’t say, lies that you did say.

Get out, but don't cause unneeded accidents.

God is a cloud from which rain fell.

Good is not always good.

Great poets are great copy editors.

He awaits himself while walking, out of the icy circle to escape.

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

He had an answer to almost everything and he retired at an early age.

His Highness was always confident in his statements, especially about what he viewed for the first time.

Holy books are an insult to a God with good intentions.

How does one say something new and not retell?

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

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.

If you are good, they say you are weak.

If you are only what you are, You at least have a chance Not to outsmart, But be on a par with yourself And that is worth trying.

If you could have walked on the planet before humans lived here, maybe the Ivory Coast would have seemed more beautiful than La Côte d'Azur.

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

In a myriad of ways you tell one truth.

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

In its proper role, a number counts the missing words.

Instead of imitating me, you simply loiter.

In the end, the world returns to a grain.

In the lie of truth lies the truth.

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?

It is easy to arrange the words in a story born out of a dream; for a story without a dream, a story itself is not enough.

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.

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

It’s not easy to write a poem about a poem.

Love is almost never simple.

Many are so used to laurels and presume that they are real winners.

Many writers were better before they became famous.

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

Most often, adorned winners haven’t worked for posterity but for the laurel wreaths and real winners don’t care about adorned victories.

Names do not know how to sing, although they sometimes sound glorious.

Names do not write poems nor do they create work.

Names sound nice because no one peeks behind the cover to see the sad face of a poem crying for meaning, while the name of the creator proudly smiles from the title.

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

Neither alive nor dead; No one lets up, No one wins.

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