Branislava Maoduš
Goodreads Author
Member Since
January 2016
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Veliki Getsbi
by
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published
1925
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3487 editions
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Kućna pomoćnica (The Housemaid, #1)
by
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published
2022
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125 editions
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Dok nisam srela tebe (Me Before You, #1)
by
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published
2012
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11 editions
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Ljudi koje srećemo na odmoru
by
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published
2021
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105 editions
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Razum i osećajnost
by
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published
1811
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7620 editions
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Osvit dana žetve (The Hunger Games, #0.5)
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published
2025
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75 editions
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Sve što nismo preboleli (Knockemout, #1)
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published
2022
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66 editions
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Ema
by
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published
1815
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8422 editions
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Žena na prozoru
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published
2018
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190 editions
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Sobarica
by
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published
2022
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6 editions
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Branislava’s Recent Updates
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Branislava Maoduš
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Branislava Maoduš
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Great Big Beautiful Life
by Emily Henry (Goodreads Author) Goodreads Choice Awards Nominee in Readers' Favorite Romance, Readers' Favorite Audiobook |
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Branislava Maoduš
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Branislava Maoduš
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“I believe in everything until it's disproved. So I believe in fairies, the myths, dragons. It all exists, even if it's in your mind. Who's to say that dreams and nightmares aren't as real as the here and now?”
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“The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real ... for a moment at least ... that long magic moment before we wake.
Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?
We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.
They can keep their heaven. When I die, I'd sooner go to middle Earth.”
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Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?
We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.
They can keep their heaven. When I die, I'd sooner go to middle Earth.”
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