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Before he was a writer, before the exile, the communist prison, the pages soaked in history and irony—Borislav Pekic was a boy at a piano, playing etudes for his mother while secretly reading Dostoevsky hidden among the sheet music. His fingers moved on instinct. His mind wandered freely. This moment—part mischief, part genius—contains everything: the refusal to be confined by appearances, the quiet rebellion against dull routine, and the lifelong compulsion to let ideas breathe.
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Čovek koji je jeo smrt I deo
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Postoje razlike ali one su minimalne. Neke reči su stavljene kurzivom koje to ranije nisu bile, neke sitne greške ispravljenje, grafički je izdanje popravljeno. Zavisi za šta će Vam te knjige poslužiti. Ako radite neki naučni rad, onda preporučujem mek povez, ako svaka pojedina reč nije baš od vitalne važnosti onda je to Vaš izbor.
Srdačan pozdrav.