Comrades

In this new administration, some are progressing almost invisibly that no one knew whose side they were on before August 30. Their only defense when called to make a statement was a bland smile. But as soon as they got hold of a little power, their faces took on seriousness and severity. Although they don't seem the most competent for the job they do, to communicate with them you have to go through several instances and wait in line.

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We all claim that it is more important who tells us than what he tells us. And, in fact, it's not like that. If we like what someone is saying, we will instantly forget what kind of epithets we "honored" him, and that recently, when we didn't like what he was saying. And vice versa: if he criticizes us or just says something we don't agree with, we won't have a good word for him anymore.

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And the epithet of good people is most easily given to cavaliers, especially those who know how to gallantly dine in a tavern. They can be nervous and grumpy at home, unpleasant and arrogant to subordinates or clingy and condescending to superiors, but if they shout two rounds, nothing can stop the word of their goodness.

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It sounds paradoxical, but as time goes on we have fewer and fewer friends. We gradually move away from the old ones: due to carelessness, laziness, some careless words or simply forgetting, and we have neither the will nor the need to acquire new ones.

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Mihajlo Pantić quotes Danil Nikolić in his excellent book "Stories of Writers": "It's terrible. Man takes nothing from this world. Not even memories. And yet we should express our deepest gratitude to nature for giving us the power to remember. What would a man do without memories?"

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Nikola Stanišić was buried at the Sveti Jovan cemetery in Đurmani, Sutomor. He was 88 years old. He taught me history at the Bar high school, from the first to the third grade, actually, until June 1976, when he became the first director of the local Cultural Center. One of the constellation of great high school teachers left. Silence was implied in his classes, although he never raised his voice. The students respected him immensely, above all because he was fair and principled. Everyone in the department knew, based on the answer of the person called, what grade Professor Stanišić would assign, there were no privileged or discriminated individuals. Although I was the son of his colleague, a professor of history, I was treated like everyone else. I received, with filigree precision, the grade that I would have deserved at that moment, no less, from a two to a five.

Professor Nikola Stanišić was a respectable, modest, honest man.

* * *

I started reading the book "The Role", by Sergey Dovlatov. Very quickly my thoughts dragged me to the other side. I put the book down thinking it was not my day to read. The next morning, I started again on "stories from Russia" and again my concentration was weak. Whenever something goes wrong, I first think that the problem is with me and start to question myself. Only after the third failure did I realize that, in fact, "The Role" is not at the level of other books by my favorite Russian writer.

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On Friday, November 12, a long text about one of the greatest Montenegrin lyricists, Aleksandar Les Ivanović, should be published in "Politikina zabavnik".

What do I have to do with him? None, except that I love his poetry, that I know his middle son and that once upon a time, thanks to the songs "Kari Šabanovi" and "Jutra yugova", he got me out of trouble...

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"I didn't vaccinate, and I won't!"

I know why, bro...