Serbian Krsna Slava

The celebration of family Patron Saint’s Day which is called Krsna Slava or Slava is a unique Serbian custom and phenomenon in Orthodox Christianity. It is observed annually, on the feast of the saint to whom Slava is dedicated, by all members of the same family or community, in honor of their protector saint. This centuries-old custom clearly reflects the self-consciousness of the Serbian people and says much about the importance of preserving the national tradition. Slava is the most important family holiday of every Orthodox Serb, honoring the heavenly patron of the whole family through generations.

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Alice Munro

Alice Munro

“I made sure I had got to the edge of the stone. That was all the name there was – Meda. So, it was true that she was called by that name in the family. Not just in the poem. Or perhaps she chose her name from the poem, to be written on her stone.

I thought that there wasn’t anybody alive in the world but me who would know this, who would make the connection. And I would be the last person to do so. But perhaps this isn’t so. People are curious. A few people are. They will be driven to find things out, even trivial things. They will put things together. You see them going around with notebooks, scraping the dirt off gravestones, reading microfilms, just in the hope of seeing this trickle in time, making a connection, rescuing one thing from the rubbish.

And they may get it wrong, after all. I may have got it wrong. I don’t know if she ever took laudanum. Many ladies did. I don’t know if she ever made grape jelly.”


Zeb Ghauri (1928–1985)

All outlines are lost, all sights, all landscapes and me
They’re one again – the sky, sea, shore, and me

A secret word being a mirror to the heart
A haze spread from scene to scene, and me

As the maiden wind teases when it passes on
But silent for so long are the deep sea, and me

How well known they are to each other, Zeb!
Those coconut trees, these stones on shore, and me

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Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832)
Faust, First Part

“You can’t, if you can’t feel it, if it never
Rises from the soul, and sways
The heart of every single hearer,
With deepest power, in simple ways.
You’ll sit forever, gluing things together,
Cooking up a stew from other’s scraps,
Blowing on a miserable fire,
Made from your heap of dying ash.
Let apes and children praise your art,
If their admiration’s to your taste,
But you’ll never speak from heart to heart,
Unless it rises up from your heart’s space.”