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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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Showing posts from April, 2020
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MIT KNJIŽEVNOSTI I MIT STVARNOSTI V deo
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MIT KNJIŽEVNOSTI I MIT STVARNOSTI IV deo
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MIT KNJIŽEVNOSTI I MIT STVARNOSTI III deo
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MIT KNJIŽEVNOSTI I MIT STVARNOSTI II deo
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MIT KNJIŽEVNOSTI I MIT STVARNOSTI I deo
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MASKE NAŠE NASUŠNE, TAMO GDE LOZE PLAČU
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DRŽANJE U ŠKRIPCU, TAMO GDE LOZE PLAČU
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DEVETSTO SEDAMNAESTA, TAMO GDE LOZE PLAČU
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GRAĐANSTVO U NESVESTICI, TAMO GDE LOZE PLAČU
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TIGROVI U ČIZMAMA, TAMO GDE LOZE PLAČU
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