56. Ѐ Ȏ (1988) Print E-mail
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56. ­­ ­­
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­ ­­­ ­­­ ­­­ ­­ ­­ 56. , ­­­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­­­ ­­­­ ­­ ­ ­­­­ (1824– 1853), ­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­­­ ­ ­ ­­. ­­­ ­ ­­ , ­­ ­, ­ ­, ­ ­­, ­ ­­, ­ ­­­ ­­, ­ ­­­... ­­ ­ ­ ­ ­­­ ­ ­­ ­­­ ­­­­­ ­­­­ ­­ ­­­ ­­ ­­­ ­­ ­­. ­­ ­­­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­­­, ­­ ­ 29 ­­, ­­ ­ ­­, ­ ­­ ­­. ­­­ ­­ ­­ ­, ­.
­­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­­­ ­­­, ­ ­ ­­­ ­­ ­ ­­­­ ­­­ ­­ ­­­, ­­ 04. 08. 2016, ­ ­­ ­­ ­, ­­ . ­­­ ­ ­, ­­ ­­, ­­ 56. ­­ ­­ ­­

­­ ­­
­
­ ­­,
­­­ ­­­­ ­­ ­­­
­­ ­, 2015.

­ ­ ­­­ ­­ 9 ­­ ­­ ­, ­­ ­ ­ ­ ­ , ­ ­­ (­­ ­­­­ "­­ ­­ ", ­, 2015), ­ ­, ­­ ­­­­ (­­ ­ ­, ­ , 2015) ­ ­­, ­­ ­­ ( ­­­­ ­­ ­­­, ­­ ­, 2015). ­ ­­ ­­­ ­ ­­­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­ ­. ­­ ­­­ ­­­ ­ ­­­­ ­­­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­­­ ­­­­ ­­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­­­­, ­­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­­­ ­ ­. ­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­­.
­ ­ ­ 1988. ­­ ­­ ­. ­­ ­ ­­­ ­ ­­­ ­­­ ­­­ ­­­. ­­ ­­ ­­­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­­. ­ ­­­. ­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­­­ ­­­­ ­­­, ­ ­­­ ­ ­­­­ ­­­­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­. ­ ­­­ ­­, "­­", " ­", "­. ­" "­" ­­ ­­­ ­ ­­, ­­, ­­ ­­­. ­ ­ ­­ ­­, ­­ ­­ ­­­ ­­­­, ­ ­­­ ­­, ­­­­­ ­­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­­­. ­ ­, ­ ­­­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­­­ ­ ­­­ ­­­­ ­ ­­­­ ­­­­ ­­­­, ­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­­­ ­­. ­ ­ ­­ ­­, ­ ­ ­ ­ ­­­­ ­ (­­, ­­, ­­­, ­­­), ­­ ­­­ ­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­­­, ­­­­­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­­ ­­­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­. ­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­­­ ­­­ ­­ ­­­­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­­­ ­ ­­ "­­". ­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­­­­ ­ ­­­ ­ ­­­ ­ ­­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­­­ ­­, ­­­­ ­ ­­­.

­ ­, 04. ­­ 2016. ­­

­ ­­: ­­ ­
­­ . ­­­
­ ­, ­­



­ ­­ ­­ ­­

­­ ­­­ ­­­ ­­ ­, ­ ­ ­­ ­­, ­­­ ­ ­­ ­­­­ ­­ ­­ ­ "­ ­­".
­ ­­­, ­­, ­ ­­­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­­ – ­ ­­­ ­­ ­­ ­­; ­­­ ­­ ­ ­­, ­­ ­­ ­ ­­­ ­­ ­. ­­, ­­ ­ ­­ ­, ­ , ­ ­­­ ­­­, ­ ­­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­­. ­­ ­ ­ ­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­, ­­ ­ ­ ­ ­. ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­, ­ ­­ ­­, ­­­­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­ ­­, ­ ­­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­­. ­­ ­ ­ ­­­ ­­­, ­ ­­­ ­­­, ­­ ­ ­­­ ­, ­ ­­­, ­, ­­.
­­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­­­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­, ­­­­ ­­ ­­ ­­­ ­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­­. ­ ­, ­ ­ ­­, ­ ­ ­ ­­­ , ­ ­­­, ­­ ­­ ­.
­­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­, ­ ­­­ ­ ­­ ­­­ ­ ­­­­, ­ ­ ­ ­­ ­, ­ ­­ ­­­, ­­­ ­­ ­­­ ­­. ­­­ ­­ 1847. ­­, ­ ­ , ­­ ­­­ ­­ ­­, ­­ ­ ­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­­ ­ ­­ – ­­­ ­­­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­­ ­ ­­. ­ ­­­­ ­­ XX ­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­­ ­ ­­, ­ ­­, ­ ­­­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­ ­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­, ­ ­­, ­ ­, ­ ­ ­­­. ­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­­, ­ ­, ­­ , ­­ ­ ­, ­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­.
­­ ­ ­­ ­ ­ – ­ ­ "­ ­­" ­­­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­­­­; ­­­­, ­ ­­ ­­ ­­­ ­­­ ­, ­­ ­­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ "­", ­­­­ ­. ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­­­ ­­ ­­ ­­­: ­, ­ ­, ­­­ ­ ­­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­­­. ­­ ­ ­ ­­, ­ ­ ­ ­, ­ ­­. ­ ­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­­­ ­ ­­ ­­­. ­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­­, ­ ­­­ ­, ­­ ­­, ­­­­­ ­­­ ­, ­­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­­, ­­­ ­­­­ ­ ­­­, ­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­­, ­ ­­­­ ­­. ­­ ­­ ­­­­­ ­, ­­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­ ­ . ­­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­­, ­­ ­­, ­­­­, ­­­. ­, ­, ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­, ­ ­ ­­­ ­­­ ­ ­­, ­ ­­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­­­ ­­ ­­.
­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­ ­, ­­ ­­­ ­­­­ ­­­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­­­­; ­ ­­­ ­ ­­­ ­­­­ ­­ ­­­ ­ ­­ ­­, ­­­ ­­­, ­­­ ­. ­­­ ­ ­ ­ ­­­ ­­­, ­ ­ ­, ­­ ­­­, ­. , ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­­ ­­­ ­­ ­­­ ­ ­­ ­­, ­­­ ­ ­ ­, ­ ­­­­­­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­ . ­ ­­ ­.




­ ­Ȏ

­­­­­

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­ ­ ­­­­ ­,
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­ ­:
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.





­­, ­ ­­ ­­­
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­ ­ ­ ­ ­­:

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­ ­ ! ­ ­ ­,
­ ­ ­­ ­, ­ ­,
­­ ­, ­ ­­­­ ­ ­.

­ ­ ­­ ­ ­,
­ – .

­ ­ ­ ­­­ ­
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­ ­ ­ ­ ­
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X

­­ ­ ­ ­.
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­ ­­:
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­­­ .





­­ ­­ ­­
­­­ ­­­ ­­ ­­

­­­ ­­ ­­­

● ­ ­­ ­­­ ­­ ­­ "­ ­­". ­ ­ ­­­ ­­­ ­ ­­­ ­­ ­­­?
– ­ ­­ ­­­ ­­­ ­­, ­­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­ ­ ­. ­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­­­­ ­­­­ ­­­ ­­ ­­ ­­­­­ ­­ ­ . ­­­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­, ­ ­­­ ­ ­­­­ ­ ­­­­. , ­ ­ ­­­ ­­, ­ ­­, ­­­ ­ ­, ­ ­ ­­. ­­, ­ ­ ­ ­­­ ­­­, ­ ­ ­­­ ­­­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­­ ­ ­­­, ­­. ­ ­­­ ­­ ­­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­, ­ ­ ­­ ­­. ­ ­ ­­ ­­­­­ ­­ ­ ­­, ­ ­. ­ ­, ­ ­­ ­­­­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­­­­ ­ ­ ­­ "­­" ­ ­ ­­ ­­­­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­ ­ ­­­, ­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­, ­­ ­­­, [­­, ­ ­­­x... ­ ­ ­.
● ­­ ­ ­­­ ­­­ ­, ­ ­­­ (­­) ­ ­ ­ ­ ­­­ (­­­), ­ ­­ ­­­ ­­­ ­ ­­­?
– ­ ­­­ ­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­, ­ ­ ­ ­­, ­ ­ ­ ­ ­­ ­ ­. ­­, ­­­ ­­­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­­, ­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­­­ ­ ­ ­ ­. ­­­ ­ ­­ – ­­ ­ ­ ­­­­ ­­­­, ­­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­, ­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­. ­ ­­ ­­­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­, ­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­­ ­. ­­­ "­ ­­" ­­ ­ ­­­, ­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­­­­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­­: ­ ­ ­­, ­ , ­ , ­­­­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­­­­ ­­­, ­ ­ ­­­ ­­ ­, ­ ­, ­­ ­. ­­­, ­ ­­ ­­ ­- ­­­ ­­­ ­­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­­­, ­ ­­­ ­­ ­ ­ , ­ ­­ ­­, ­­­ ­­, ­ ­ ­­. ­­, ­­.
● ­ "­ ­­" ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­­ ­­­?
– ­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­­­­ ­­ ­ ­­, ­ ­ ­­ . ­ ­­­­­ ­ ­­­­ ­ ­ ­­, ­­ ­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­­. ­ "­ ­­" ­ ­­­ ­ ­­­ ­, ­ ­­. ­ ­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­, ­ ­­ ­­­, ­­ ­­­ ­ ­­: ­, ­­, ­­, ­­ ­­­ ­ ­­ ­­, ­­ ­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­­ ­­­ ­­ ­ ­ ­. ­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­­. ­ ­­ ­­ ­­­ ­ ­­, ­­­, ­­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­­­­­, ­­ ­, ­ ­ ­­­ ­­­ ­­­, ­­­­­­­­, ­­­­ ­­­ ­ ­. ­ ­ ­ ­ ­, ­ ­ ­ ­. ­­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­­­ ­­­­­­, ­­­ ­­ ­ ­ ­, ­­ ­ ­­­­ , ­­ ­­­, ­­­ ­­ ­­­.
● ­ ­ ­ ­­­, ­, , ()­­­, , ­­­ ­­ ­. ­­ ­­ , ­­­ ­­. , ­ ­­ ­ ­. "­ ­ ­­­ ­­".
– ­ ­ ­­ ­­­­ ­ , ­­ – ­, ­ ­ ­­­­ ­­. ­ ­ , ­ ­­, ­­­ ­­­, ­ ­ ­­­ ­ ­­.
● ­ ­­ ­­, ­­ ­, ­­ , ­­ ­­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­­. ­ ­­­ ­­ ­ ­­­­ ­­.
– ­ ­ ­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­­­­­ ­­­, ­­ ­­ ­ ­­­­­­ ­­, ­ ­ ­ ­ ­­, ­ ­ ­ ­. ­ ­ ­­ ­­, ­­, ­­­­. ­­­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­. ­­­ ­ ­ ­­­ ­­­, ­­­ ­ ­­, ­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­­ ­­ , ­­, ­­ ­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­­ ­­­ ­­­­­­­. ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­­ ­­ ­­­ ­ ­­­ ­ ­­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­­­. ­­­ ­ ­­­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­­ , ­­­, ­­.
● ­ ­­­ ­ "­" ­ ­ ­ ­. ­ ­­­ ­­­ ­­­ ­­, ­­ ­­­?
– ­ ­ ­­ – ­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­, ­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­­ ­ ­­­ ­­­, ­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­­­, ­­­ ­, ­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­ ­­­. ­­ ­­ ­­, ­­­ ­­­. ­ ­­ ­ ­, ­ ­­­ ­ ­­ ­­­­ ­ ­­­­­ ­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­­ ­­­ ­­ ­­, ­ ­­, ­. ­ ­­­­ "­­" ­­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­­ ­­ ­­­. ­­­ ­ ­ ­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­­ ­­ – ­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­ ­ ­ ­­ ­ ­ ­. ­ , ­­ ­­.

*

­ ­ ­ 1988. ­­ ­­ ­. ­­ ­ ­­­ ­ ­­­ ­­­ ­­­ ­­­. ­­­ ­ ­­­ ­­­ ­­­, ­­­­ ­­­ ­­­, ­ ­­­ ­ ­­ ­. ­ "­ ­­" ­­­ ­­ ­­ ­­­­ ­­­ ­­­. ­ ­ -302 ­­­ ­­­ ­­, ­ ­­, ­­ ­­­ "­ ­: ­ ­ ­­­ ­­­", ­­­ 2015. ­­.
­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­­­ ­­­­ ­­­, ­ ­­­ ­ ­­­­ ­­­­­. ­ ­­­ ­­, "­­", " ­", "­. ­" "­" ­­ ­­­ ­ ­­, ­­, ­­ ­­­. ­ ­ ­­ ­­, ­­ ­­ ­­­ ­­­­, ­ ­­­ ­­, ­­­­­ ­­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­­­.

In­ter­vi­ew with Sr­đan Ga­gić,
this year’s win­ner of the Bran­ko’s Award

In­ter­vi­e­wed by Ne­ma­nja Ra­i­če­vić
 
● The wri­ters from com­pul­sory re­a­ding list are an­no­u­ning fo­ur cycles of "Chil­dren in the win­dow­shop". How wo­uld you de­scri­be the fo­un­da­tion of your po­e­try in re­spect to tra­di­tion?
– I think that wri­ting is in­se­pa­ra­ble from re­a­ding ex­pe­ri­en­ce, and I wan­ted that sig­ni­fi­cant aut­hors for me to be the part of my first bo­ok. Com­pul­sory re­a­ding is one very im­por­tant spot whe­re we stop and ab­sorb con­tents we best com­mu­ni­ca­te with and I be­li­e­ve it ap­pli­es for all of us. I am mo­re in­te­re­sted in tra­di­tion as the area of fre­e­dom whe­re one lo­oks for kins, than as an ima­gi­nary fi­xed and un­to­uc­ha­ble system of aut­ho­ri­ti­es. Tho­ugh, in or­der to ac­cept or deny so­met­hing, to en­ter a di­a­lo­gue, to de­ter­mi­ne your­self to­ward so­met­hing, you need to get to know it. Al­so, to eva­lu­a­te tra­di­tion pro­perly, I think the key thing is to ap­pre­ci­a­te di­ac­hro­ni­es and then you can even bet­ter read, let’s say, Vo­ji­slav Ilić or Vi­na­ver, Da­vi­čo. My re­a­ding ex­pe­ri­en­ce when po­e­try is in qu­e­sti­on is ma­inly ba­sed on our po­e­try in its wi­dest sen­se and the po­ets sig­ni­fi­cant for me be­long to ni­ce li­te­rary tra­di­tion. But at the sa­me ti­me, the very ex­pe­ri­en­ce of com­mu­ni­ca­tion with com­pul­sory re­a­ding is at the end very per­so­nal, one-on-one. On the ot­her hand, I think I be­long to the ge­ne­ra­tion that very con­sci­o­usly, and for the po­e­try very use­ful, tends to re­con­struct the links among po­e­tic "sce­nes" in so­met­hing that might be cal­led Yugo­slav cul­tu­ral spa­ce, the­reby gi­ving ba­sis and en­co­u­ra­ge­ment for cre­a­tion of a new and be­a­u­ti­ful tra­di­tion. Thus, for me, com­pul­sory re­a­ding is equ­ally im­por­tant as Vla­di­mir Stoj­nić, Vla­di­mir Ta­ba­še­vić, Ivan Ša­mi­ja, Go­ran Čo­lak­ho­džić... so­me are even youn­ger than me.
● Con­si­de­ring the firm and met­ho­di­cal struc­tu­re of your col­lec­tion, which is a jo­ur­ney (ope­ning) that in the end de­als with the jo­ur­ney it­self (li­be­ra­tion), what wo­uld you po­int out as ba­sic in for­ming your po­e­tics?
– I just now, and from this dis­tan­ce as a re­a­der, be­ca­me awa­re of that firm struc­tu­re and its im­por­tan­ce for this col­lec­tion, and I think it is one of the vir­tu­es, which I ac­kno­led­ge with dif­fi­culty to my col­lec­tion. Ho­we­ver, the fact is that studying the struc­tu­re was not the part of pre­pa­ra­tion pro­cess, as the col­lec­tion ini­ti­ally was not con­si­de­red to be con­cep­tual and I re­mem­ber it very cle­arly. It ca­me af­ter­wards – the struc­tu­re was at first esta­blis­hed in­tu­i­ti­vely, the­re was an idea abo­ut what sho­uld be the nuc­le­us aro­und which the tis­sue of each cycle and the col­lec­tion it­self wo­uld be for­med, the idea that ac­tu­ally wor­ked on and bu­ilt this col­lec­tion not be­ing to­tally awa­ke. Fi­ne works ca­me af­ter­wards and they we­re pos­si­ble only with so­me de­tac­hment, when I tried to bring the col­lec­tion for­mally in­to ac­cep­ta­ble sha­pe. The po­e­try of "Chil­dren in thnj njin­donj­shop" is ma­inly ex­pe­ri­en­ti­al, and the fo­cus is on in­tu­i­ti­ve pic­tu­res which try to find two types of so­lu­ti­ons: on one hand, tho­se po­e­tic ones, which, I ho­pe, re­sul­ted in po­e­try able to com­mu­ni­ca­te with its re­a­der, and on the ot­her hand, per­so­nal so­lu­ti­ons to­wards which the aut­hor, I gu­ess per­for­ce, in­cli­nes thro­ugh cre­a­tion. The jo­ur­ney, firstly the in­ner one whe­re one, li­ke in a vi­deo ga­me, pas­ses va­ri­o­us le­vels and ob­stac­les to­wards the va­gue goal of ma­tu­rity, and then the jo­ur­ney thro­ugh physi­cal spa­ce which again, via pro­ces­sing ex­pe­ri­en­ce, ends in­si­de, is what I in­ten­ded to talk abo­ut. In fact, abo­ut mo­ving.
● Can "Chil­dren in the win­donwshop" be un­der­stood as the po­e­tic chro­nic­le of spe­cu­la­ti­ve gro­wing-up?
– Text can be un­der­stood in all the ways a po­ten­tial re­a­der wants to un­der­stand it, the aut­hor has no po­wer over that. So­me over-oc­cu­pan­ci­es and per­so­nal mo­ti­va­ti­ons are ea­sily re­a­da­ble, be­ca­u­se be­ing re­a­da­ble is one of the im­por­tant fe­a­tu­res of this po­e­try and I wo­uld not li­ke to gi­ve up on that. And I don’t think that "Chil­dren in the win­dowshop" is par­ti­cu­larly de­man­ding or im­pas­sa­ble col­lec­tion, on con­trary. The col­lec­tion is ba­si­cally a po­e­tic chro­nic­le, one po­e­tic Bil­dun­gsro­man, be­ca­u­se it starts from the fact that thro­ugh key ex­pe­ri­en­ce of: war, se­pa­ra­tion, lo­ve, loss and jo­ur­ney the lyri­cal I ac­tu­ally grows up, tra­vels back to ar­re­ars of each pha­se of the­ir in­ner gro­wing up and stops at all tho­se pla­ces felt as key ones. One is just po­e­ti­cally re­con­struc­ting one­self. Chil­dren’s in­no­cen­ce is ini­tial po­si­tion and its loss, per­fo­ra­tion, pe­ne­tra­tion of hi­story in­to so­me kind of in­ner in­tac­tness, the ex­pe­ri­en­ce of war, opens spa­ce for va­ri­o­us iden­tity com­ple­xi­fi­ca­ti­ons, for self-ac­tu­a­li­za­tion, for re­sol­ving con­flicts with one­self and with the world. And I think it is not just my to­pic, that’s why I wro­te abo­ut that. Cre­a­tion gi­ves the pos­si­bi­lity to ma­te­ri­a­li­ze in­ti­ma­te tran­si­tion, to ma­ke it, whe­re ge­ne­ral, clo­se and re­cog­ni­za­ble to the one who will pos­sibly, in ca­se of po­e­try, read and ex­pe­ri­en­ce it.
● So­me of your the­mes are fa­mily, lo­ve, de­ath, (non)be­lon­ging, war, lost and fo­und joy. The­re are mu­sic and snow, from the In­no­cen­ce to the North. Thro­ugh all that, the­re is fre­qu­ently pre­sent the mo­tif of a hand. Even "the birds ha­ve thic­ke­ned palms".
– The hand is one of the ways to ex­tend one­self in­to the world, in short – it is the to­uch, seen as an eco­un­ter and ex­pe­ri­en­cing the re­a­lity. Un­li­ke all that, which you cal­led, spe­cu­la­ti­ve gro­wing-up, the hand is al­ways the­re so that the gro­wing up is pal­pa­ble.
 ● Ja­spers tal­ked abo­ut Au­gen­blick, the ex­pe­ri­en­ce that, li­te­rally in­stantly, per­va­des an in­di­vi­dual so de­ep that they can ex­pe­ri­en­ce the eter­nity in the mo­ment of ob­jec­ti­ve ti­me. In your po­e­try, the­re is a strong fo­cus on the mo­ment.
– I wo­uld say that my en­ti­re ex­pe­ri­en­ce is ba­sed on that kind of su­bli­ma­tion and co­he­sion, whe­re the ex­pe­ri­en­ce be­co­mes just a den­se and un­dif­fe­ren­ti­a­ted con­tent, the pic­tu­re who­se me­a­ning ne­eds to be re­ve­a­led, and the hunch that it me­ans so­met­hing im­por­tant. The en­ti­re cycle In­no­cen­ce is ba­sed, let’s say, on that in­vo­king. And tho­se in­tu­i­ti­ve ima­ges oc­cur at the very mo­ments that are po­ten­ti­ally trig­gers of so­me pro­fo­und ex­pe­ri­en­ce which then is not just mi­ne and is not just one in ti­me. I ha­ve tal­ked re­cently with a fri­end of mi­ne abo­ut tho­se mo­ments, and we con­clu­ded how we sha­red them, when you feel you can cry for be­a­uty, when so­me mu­sic or ver­se or ima­ge to­uch you on the le­vel which eva­des the pos­si­bi­lity of ex­pla­na­ti­on or ra­ti­o­na­li­za­tion. You feel that, in a par­tic­le of ti­me, you ha­ve been gi­ven an ex­pe­ri­en­ti­al fra­me fil­led with con­tents that by its both qu­a­lity and qu­an­tity go­es beyond the cur­rent mo­ment in ti­me. From such mo­ments ex­clu­si­vely I cre­a­ted my po­ems, and thus the fo­cus on the mo­ment and what it, in the bac­kgro­und, has to say.
● The col­lec­tion ends with the word "epi­lo­gue". How do you ima­gi­ne the pos­si­bi­li­ti­es of a re­a­der over this sta­te­ment, call or rid­dle?
– The epi­lo­gue is de­sig­ned as emp­ti­ness – the one that opens spa­ce, by get­ting out of so-far in­ti­ma­te ge­ne­sis to­wards the physi­cal spa­ce of Ot­her­ness, and then by le­a­ving the col­lec­tion ena­bled by that very ge­o­grap­hi­cal mo­va­bi­lity, to pos­si­ble fu­tu­re mo­ti­ons and jo­ur­neys on every of­fe­red, re­cog­ni­zed le­vel, and maybe even spa­ces that are to be di­sco­ve­red. Emp­ti­ness do­es not gi­ve an an­swer, but it is sup­po­sed it do­es not end the­re. My new wri­ting is tra­cing tho­se furt­her mo­ti­ons in tho­se op­po­si­ti­ons which we­re me­an­whi­le im­por­tant for me and which tend to tra­ce the so­lu­tion for the con­flicts bet­we­en a man and na­tu­re, anot­her man, text. It was in­te­re­sting for me to "read" that epi­lo­gue in the re­vi­ew of my col­lec­tion writ­ten by Mi­li­ca Mi­len­ko­vić. She no­ti­ced that af­ter the epi­lo­gue and emp­ti­ness fol­lows a short bi­o­grap­hi­cal no­te – so it se­ems that the su­bli­ma­te and epi­lo­gue of everything writ­ten in the col­lec­tion is re­pre­sen­ted by that scanty da­ta born then and the­re and it’s his first bo­ok. I didn’t in­tend it, but I li­ked it very much.

Pre­ve­la: Iva­na Ve­lja

*

Sr­đan Ga­gić was born in 1988 in Bo­san­ski No­vi. He is a gra­du­a­te at De­part­ment of Ser­bian li­te­ra­tu­re with ge­ne­ral li­te­ra­tu­re, Fa­culty of Phi­lo­logy, Bel­gra­de Uni­ver­sity. His po­e­try and pro­se ha­ve been pu­blis­hed on va­ri­o­us por­tals, ma­ga­zi­nes and jo­int edi­ti­ons, and his po­ems ha­ve been tran­sla­ted in­to Ro­ma­nian and En­glish. The col­lec­tion "Chil­dren in the win­dowshop" was pu­blis­hed as awar­ded ma­nu­script at Rat­ko­vić po­e­try nights. Wit­hin the Club A-302 at Fa­culty of Phi­lo­sophy in Za­greb, be­ing the mem­ber of edi­ts­hip, he pre­pa­red the pro­spect "Soft tis­sue: se­lec­tion from new po­e­try of the re­gion" pu­blis­hed in 2015.
His first col­lec­tion of po­ems Chi­dren in the win­dow­shop re­pre­sents the most po­wer­ful vo­i­ce of the last year’s pro­duc­tion, a vo­i­ce which is re­la­ti­vely cle­arly ar­ti­cu­la­ted and po­si­ti­o­ned in ti­me and spa­ce in which it ap­pe­a­red. The col­lec­tion is di­vi­ded in­to fi­ve cycles, "In­no­cen­ce", "In­to Dusk", "Ro­om. Hall" and "North" de­a­ling with the­mes of ori­gin, fic­tion, lo­ve and no­ma­dism. His lan­gu­a­ge is ten­se and pre­ci­se, on the ed­ge bet­we­en re­flec­tion and me­tap­ho­rics, of­ten po­le­mic and scep­ti­cal, which are the cha­tac­te­ri­stics es­sen­tial in mo­dern ex­pres­si­on which tends to be ef­fec­ti­ve anyhow.

 
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