Meša Selimović (1910–1982)

My hidden instincts, which protected me even without my conscious will, generously granted me such beautiful, noble thoughts, without curtailing them: they knew that these thoughts were not dangerous, that they could not turn into deeds. But they helped me to take revenge for the shame that had filled me as I stood before the mufti.

If anyone considers this strange, or even unlikely, I can only say that the truth is something very strange, and we convince ourselves that it does not exist because we are ashamed of it, as we are of a leprous child, although in this manner the truth is not rendered any less truthful. We usually beautify our thoughts and hide the vipers that slither within us.

That's why no-one ever runs; everyone knows it. Maybe they're hopeful. Hope is the pimp of death, a murderer more dangerous than hatred. It's deceptive; it knows how to win you over, to calm you and lull you to sleep, whispering whatever you want to hear, leading you to the blade.

"Here, in your back yard, not far from this Byzantine splendour and wealth, which has been hauled here from the whole empire, your own brothers live like beggars. But we belong to no-one, we're always on some frontier, always someone's dowry. It is then surprising that we're poor? For centuries we've been trying to find, trying to recognise ourselves. Soon we won't even know who we are, we're already forgetting that we've even been striving for anything. Others do us the honour of letting us march under their banners, since we have none of our own. They entice us when they need us, then reject us when we're no longer any use to them. The saddest land in the world, the most unhappy people in the world. We're losing our identity, but we cannot assume another, foreign one. We've been severed from our roots, but haven't become part of anything else; foreign to everyone, both to those who are our kin and those who won't take us in and adopt us as their own. We live at a crossroads of worlds, at a border between peoples, in everyone's world. And someone always thinks we're to blame for something. The waves of history crash against us, as against a reef. We're fed up with those in power and we've made a virtue out of distress: we've become noble-minded out of spite. You're ruthless on a whim. So who's backward?"