He was known for his poetry especially children's poetry , books, television screenplays, and for his aphorisms. He was the editor in chief of "Pionirske novine", editor of Children's programme on Radio Belgrade and Radio-Television Belgrade , editor of the children's magazine "Poletarac", journalist at the Borba newspaper. From onwards he was the editor of radio Studio B. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. This article may be expanded with text translated from the corresponding article in Serbian.

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Gordana filmed new color baggage scanners at the Belgrade airport in the Summer of This was a flight to the Adriatic coast Tivat, Montenegro , and the X-rays show intimate pieces of life taken on a journey. Frames from that video were coupled with Markos vignettes on journeys, encounters, and intimate places. Japanese vignettes were broadcast on NHK shortwave radio program Japan Dairy in , while the Belgrade vignettes come from the first chapter of his forthcoming book on Serbian national narratives.

As many foreigners in Japan do, I resolved to find out the meaning of various menu entries at my favorite restaurant in the most direct way - by ordering a different meal every day. At first, everything went smoothly and I enjoyed new tastes with an excitement of an explorer of distant lands. There was an aquarium in one corner that I naively assumed served as a decoration only, until the day I happened to order aji-tataki.

It turned out that the fish in the aquarium were aji, and when the mistress fetched one of them out, my heart sunk. Oh, God, this little aji is going to be my dinner tonight! But the real shock came a little later when the platter was brought to me. There lay the poor aji, all of its flesh deftly cut from it and lying by its side in the fine sashimi slices. It was still twitching, and only a long wooden skewer run through what was left of its body kept it from jumping out of my plate.

Other customers were watching intently to see whether I would jump and flee the restaurant screaming. My honor as an anthropologist was at stake. I remembered the tales seasoned anthropologists tell of eating unmentionable things in exotic lands under the expectant gaze of their hosts. So I braced myself and started dining with the calm and dignified demeanor becoming an old connoisseur of Japanese cuisine, while the aji, who lived for another ten minutes or so, watched me eat its own flesh until mercifully its eyes glazed over.

Those lucky to wake up this morning in Belgrade can assume that they have accomplished enough in their life for today. To insist on something else in addition would be immodest. Dusan Radovic, Beograde, dobro jutro. This is how, one early July morning in, from the top of the tallest Belgrade skyscraper, poet and writer Dusko Radovic greeted the city in what was going to become the legendary radio show, a citys sound-signature, running for just two years, yet leaving a lasting imprint on Belgraders self-understanding and everyday speech.

Dusko Radovic was a Yugoslav institution. Generations grew up on his childrens poetry. His voice had a dark, almost misanthropic drone, his aphorisms a bitter, ironic bite. For a while the city had a true sage implanting pithy reminders of decency and common sense if not wisdom into the ears of semi-awake parents preparing to go to work, and children packing their schoolbags. His best friend who illustrated all his books, drew him once as a moody hen perched on that skyscrapers top. One Saturday morning in June I decided to go to the farmer's market with my mother.

Dragging the cart on the rough cobblestone between the stalls takes some skill, and my mother is still better at it than I am.

If in a mood, one can haggle and banter with the vendors who preside over little mountains of green, yellow and red vegetables. You may pretend to be the most highly polished urbanite, but most likely you are just barely a generation removed from the peasant across the stall and that gives the market an egalitarian feel. Here one glimpses the barrel-chested, bearded figure of a well-known National Opera baritone buying onions, over there an actress who sang gypsy songs in an Academy Award winning film of thirty years ago.

The tenor is dressed in worn out, nondescript clothes, the actress in something cheaply garish. We bump into an old acquaintance of my mothers. What are you doing here? I am studying the stories Serbs tell themselves and others about themselves, I give my one-sentence answer. Oh, everybody is studying us these days, she says; There was this American psychiatrist poking around who's studying human aggression.

But no matter how hard they try, they will never understand us. They can put us in a computer and still they wont understand. And then with a conspiratorial wink towards a fellow native: Take for instance, our inat.

Inat is supposed to be one of those ineffable essences of being a Serb, thus by definition untranslatable. We may bewail the foolishness of doing completely irrational, often self-destructive things just in spite, but we also think of inat as unfathomably noble.

I take a stab with my little test: It is a Turkish word. Oh no, she says with the air of indulgent superiority, many of those words we thought were from Turkish are in fact Sanskrit. They might be Persian or Arabic in origin, I persist, but they came through Turkish. No, she wouldnt budge, you must surely know that Serbian is practically identical with Sanskrit, and besides, you shoud look into the Hittites as well. With the full cart my mother and I walk back home through the streets of Chubura.

Shabby little houses interspersed with dilapidated villas, inner courtyards with the water tap in the middle where Chuburians gather for coffee, gossip, even a haircut in the open. There is something rough about the sound, something burly, uncouth, not quite respectable, yet all the more worthy of fierce loyalty.

It is a Turkish word. I wanted to visit a friend in China when I was in Japan. The idea of taking a boat from Yokohama to Shanghai seemed irresistibly romantic and, besides, it was the only transportation I could actually afford. The Japanese and the Chinese shipping company, however, were in dispute, so it wasnt sure if the ferry was going to sail out at all.

That was the reason I spent more than a month regularly conferring with Habu-san, the owner of a small travel agency in downtown Yokohama. Our final, decisive meeting lasted more than two hours although the matter could have been settled in about ten minutes, and yet I actually enjoyed the whole interchange as an aesthetic experience.

At that decisive meeting, Habu-san first takes quite some time to finally tell me, in that typically Japanese roundabout way, that the boat will not sail out at all. We commiserate in silence punctuated with occasional sighs. There is a certain amount of time, and the artists know exactly how much, that should be allowed to pass in order for the truth of the situation to sink in and be thoroughly digested. After this first impasse in which dancers are almost completely motionless, a second round is initiated.

This time, we go on a wild tangent of exploring the possibilities of flying to China, a hopeless direction, we both know, but which we pursue with zeal just for the arts sake. We now dance around huge flight time-tables discussing times and prices. After a while, the possibility of flying is exhausted and left to evaporate in another slowdown of silence interspersed with meaningful sighs. And then, very tentatively, and in an almost offhand way, the decisive move is finally made.

It turns out that there is indeed a different boat to Shanghai. The dance enters a new phase in which the spiral circling of the dancers for the first time suggests the existence of a center, a goal to which their movement would eventually lead them. New timetables are brought in, several phone calls made, faxes are starting to pour in.

A few smaller tangents are pursued and abandoned, just as ornaments to the dance, and slowly, slowly, the decision is starting to emerge - I will take the boat from Osaka. A few more calls, a few maps and time-tables are brought in and we happily plunge into the fascinating detail of the train ride to Osaka, discussing merits and demerits of various trains and departure times.

The decision has actually been made, but it is very hard to notice anything of such momentous importance had indeed occurred. The protagonists have not suddenly stood up, firmly shaken each others hand and promptly departed with the air of accomplishment. No, the dance goes on, new details are being added, and we are repeating several sequences we already went through, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, the dance is being brought to its tranquil end.

It is already dusk when I finally emerge from the travel agency, but my heart is full, and I believe, Habu-sans as well. We made no haste, we covered all possibilities, and we enjoyed every minute of it we have impeccably performed a beautiful and complex dance. Aji As many foreigners in Japan do, I resolved to find out the meaning of various menu entries at my favorite restaurant in the most direct way - by ordering a different meal every day.

Belgrade, good morning Those lucky to wake up this morning in Belgrade can assume that they have accomplished enough in their life for today. Spite One Saturday morning in June I decided to go to the farmer's market with my mother. Dance I wanted to visit a friend in China when I was in Japan.


Radović, Dušan



Dusan Radovic-Beograde-Dobro-Jutro.pdf



Duško Radović



Good morning,Belgrade!/Beograde,dobro jutro!


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