Jenny Han Quotes

The problem is, I can’t tell what’s real anymore, and what’s made up.

Whatever was about, whoever I had seen, and heard rocking, and who had passed me by just now, whoever had opened the locked door was not 'real'. No. But what was 'real'? At that moment I began to doubt my own reality.

I have these realistic dreams and snap wide awake in the middle of the night. And for a while I can't work out what's real and what isn't... That kind of feeling. Do you have any idea what I'm saying?

Truth and dreams are always getting muddled.

Where am I? Who am I? How did I come to be here? What is this thing called the world?

Things seemed to go back and forth between reality and imagination--except that it was all reality.

I believed or thought I was disoriented and the victim of a bizarre dream and I believe I paced in and out of the room and possibly into one of the other rooms. I may have re-examined her, finally believing that this was true.

A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are the others crazy?

I'm a misplaced American, but don't know where I was misplaced.

It is not easy to distinguish reality from illusion, especially when one lives in a period of the great upheaval.

I have very vivid dreams, and often - this happens to me at least a few times a week - I don't know if something happened in real life or in a dream. I'm like, 'Mom, did this neighbor come over, or was it a dream?' And she's like, 'No, what are you talking about?'

But there's so much that was a lie, it's hard to figure out what was true, what was real, what matters.

If we agree that the world is not what it seems, then we have an important question: What shall we do about it?

This clarity made me able to behave normally, which posed some interesting questions. Was everybody seeing this stuff and acting as though they weren't? Was insanity just a matter of dropping the act? If some people didn't see these things, what was the matter with them? Were they blind or something? These questions had me unsettled.

One can't even know what it means to be lost in reality. For instance, it is easy to know whether you are lost or not in the Sahara desert, but to be lost in reality! This is much more complex!

I couldn't tell the difference between what was real and what I wanted to be real.

And this was the main precondition, that anything might be something else. Once I'd accepted that, it followed that I might be mad, or that someone might think me mad. How could I say for certain that I wasn't, if I couldn't say for certain that a curtain wasn't a mountain range?

Is it the world that says I am real, or is it you?

There are moments in life when it is all turned inside out--what is real becomes unreal, what is unreal becomes tangible, and all your levelheaded efforts to keep a tight ontological control are rendered silly and indulgent.

Rose once told me about this poem she’d read. There was this line, ‘If your eyes weren’t open, you wouldn’t know the difference between dreaming and waking.’ You know what I’m afraid of? That someday, even with my eyes open, I still won’t know.

I don't know what I feel or what I want to feel. I don't know what to think or what I am.

Every single day I wake up in the morning, and I wonder if this is some kind of amazing dream that's gonna end all of a sudden. And, you know, I'm gonna wake up and be somewhere else.

Art exists because reality is neither real nor significant.

The one thing I do remember is that as I retraced my steps through all the familiar streets of my life, Inow felt completely lost.