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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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PISMA IZ TUĐINE XXV deo
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Hvala na lepi, željama i pohvalama za ovaj blog. Istrajnost je moja osobina koja je uveliko potpomognuta uvek bila od samog Pekića. Njega nikakav neuspeh niti bilo kakava teškoća nije obeshrabrila i sprečila da uporno radi ono što je smatrao da je bitno u životu. Ja želim da doprinesem tome koliko mogu vodeći ovaj blog, a on daje toliko materijala za razmišljanje da bi bilo neoprostivo da se to ne objavljuje i proširuje među što većem broju čitalaca.
Mnogo mi znači kada to neko ceni, a pohvala pre svega pripada Pekiću. Jer da nema njegovih tekstova šta bih ja mogla da ponudim?
Srdačan pozdrav.