Doubting what you see is a very odd experience. And doubting what you remember is a little less odd than doubting what you see. But it's also a pretty odd experience, because some memories come with a very compelling sense of truth about them, and that happens to be the case even for memories that are not true.
But I'm very careful with opinions because I never know what the truth is. When I read what the press says about me, I don't really believe what it says about other people.
I couldn't tell the difference between what was real and what I wanted to be real.
Don't you want to know what's real and what's not? I remember when I was a kid, you know, this whole Cold War thing. They had us scared of the Russians. So, it's almost like, what's real and what's not?
Things seemed to go back and forth between reality and imagination--except that it was all reality.
[T]hat is the triumph of history - truth absolute is not at hand; the original with which to match the copy does not exist.
How was I supposed to know what's real and what's not? It feels like I'm the only one who doesn't know the difference.
It belongs to every large nature, when it is not under the immediate power of some strong unquestioning emotion, to suspect itself, and doubt the truth of its own impressions, conscious of possibilities beyond its own horizon.
In my utter impotence to test the authenticity of the report of my senses, to know whether the impressions they make on me correspond with outlying objects, what difference does it make, whether Orion is up there in heaven, or some god paints the image in the firmament of the soul?
The problem is, I can’t tell what’s real anymore, and what’s made up.
Life is but a mask worn on the face of death. And is death, then, but another mask? 'How many can say,' asks the Aztec poet, 'that there is, or is not, a truth beyond?'
