Božo Koprivica

It feels utterly impossible to write this, to put into words the enormity of losing Božo. He passed away on March 21st, 2026, after a life brimming with a restless, beautiful mind – a mind that saw connections everywhere, weaving together the most unexpected threads into stories that captivated and challenged you. I met Božo nearly thirty years ago, a nervous young student stumbling into his Belgrade office, hoping for a scrap of advice on my own fledgling writing. He didn’t just give me advice; he gave me a perspective, a way of looking at the world that was both profoundly sad and utterly joyful. He had this incredible habit of pulling out random objects – a chipped teacup, a faded postcard, a single, perfect feather – and using them to illustrate a point about life, about art, about the human condition. He was a whirlwind of energy, always scribbling in notebooks, arguing passionately, and then, just as suddenly, offering a gentle, knowing smile. Božo was, of course, a brilliant literary critic and essayist, his books – *Volej i sluh* and *Kiš, Borhes i Maradona* – achieving a kind of quiet, devoted cult following. But beyond the accolades and the intellectual circles, he was, at his core, a deeply loving man. He adored his family – his wife, Ana, and their children, Marko and Jelena – and they were the anchors of his life. I remember countless evenings spent at their apartment, filled with lively conversation, strong coffee, and Božo’s infectious laughter. He’d tell stories, often rambling and tangential, but always with a twinkle in his eye and a genuine warmth that made you feel utterly seen. He had this incredible ability to make you feel like the most important person in the room, even if you were just a passing acquaintance. His passion wasn’t just for literature; he loved music, particularly jazz, and he could spend hours lost in a record store, searching for that perfect, obscure album. He also had a surprising fondness for collecting vintage postcards – each one, he’d argue, held a tiny fragment of a forgotten story. But more than anything, Božo loved people. He had a remarkable gift for understanding and empathizing with others, and he genuinely cared about the lives of everyone he met. He’d offer a listening ear, a thoughtful word, or simply a comforting presence – a quiet act of kindness that spoke volumes. Božo’s absence will be felt deeply by all who knew him. He leaves behind a legacy of beautiful writing, a vibrant spirit, and a profound impact on the lives of those fortunate enough to have crossed his path. He wasn’t just a literary figure; he was a friend, a mentor, a soul who illuminated the world with his unique and unforgettable perspective. We will miss you terribly, Božo.