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Quote by Jenny Han

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To All the Boys I've Loved Before

This novel explores themes of love, friendship, and self-discovery through the lens of a high school student who sends heartfelt letters to her crushes, only to have them fall into the wrong hands. The story delves into the complexities of teenage relationships and the impact of honesty on personal growth. more

Author

Jenny Han
Jenny Han

Jenny Han is a renowned writer known for her young adult literature. Her works are highly appreciated by young readers for their unique perspective and heartfelt emotional descriptions. more

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“I've always been a quitter. I quit the Boy Scouts, the glee club, the marching band. Gave up my paper route, turned my back on the church, stuffed the basketball team. I dropped out of college, sidestepped the army with a 4-F on the grounds of mental instability, went back to school, made a go of it, entered a Ph.D. program in nineteenth-century British literature, sat in the front row, took notes assiduously, bought a pair of horn-rims, and quit on the eve of my comprehensive exams. I got married, separated, divorced. Quit smoking, quit jogging, quit eating red meat. I quit jobs: digging graves, pumping gas, selling insurance, showing pornographic films in an art theater in Boston. When I was nineteen I made frantic love to a pinch-faced, sack-bosomed girl I'd known from high school. She got pregnant. I quit town.”

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“March 28, 2012 The dreams won’t subside. I don’t just have them at night anymore but during the day as well. Erotic flashes of her lips, her breasts, her thighs. My imagination does not rest. I yearn to know what she feels like, what she tastes like. My dreams make me long for more. This woman is a virus. Every cell in my body has been infected by her. I try to remain civil, normal when I’m in her presence but she’ll lick her lips or play with the top of her collar and suddenly memories of my dreams will come flooding back. This woman is a virus that has dominated every part of my being. She attacks my lungs, squeezing the breath out of me until I’m hopelessly gasping for air. This isn’t a want. This isn’t a need. This is an ache. I ache with wanting. I ache with need. I ache until the pain finally leaves me feeling numb. I long for that numbness. It’s the only time I feel like…I don’t feel. I try to run away, to keep my distance but this woman is a virus. She’s in my blood. Her smile stops my feet from moving. The only time she allows me to breathe freely is when I inhale her perfume. I feel myself losing control. These dreams, this ache is slowly driving me insane. This woman is a virus and she’s eating me alive.”

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“…Čuvar zabravlja turbe – zapisuje nepoznati – pustivši da u njegov mrak padne teški zvuk iz brave kao da unutra ostavlja ime ključa. Mrzovoljan je kao i ja, seda na kamen do mene i sklapa oči. U času kad već mislim da je zaspao u svom delu senke, čuvar podiže ruku i pokazuje mi moljca koji lebdi negde u tremu turbeta, izašao iz naših haljina ili iz persijskih prostirki zgrade. – Vidiš – obraća mi se on nezainteresovano – kukac je duboko gore pod belim zidom trema i primetan je samo zato što se kreće. Moglo bi se odavde pomisliti da je ptica duboko u nebu, kad bi se zid shvatio kao nebo. Moljac taj zid verovatno tako i shvata i jedino mi znamo da nije u pravu. A on ne zna ni to da mi znamo. Ne zna ni da postojimo. Pa pokušaj sada da opštiš s njime, ako možeš. Možeš li da mu kažeš nešto – bilo šta – ali tako da te on shvati i da si ti siguran da te je on shvatio do kraja? – Ne znam – odgovorio sam – a možeš li ti? – Mogu – uzvratio je mirno starac, pljesnuvši dlanovima ubio moljca i pokazao mi ga smrvljenog na dlanu. – Misliš li da nije razumeo šta sam mu rekao? – Tako možeš i sveći, gaseći je između dva prsta da pokažeš da postojiš – primetio sam. – Naravno, ako je sveća u stanju da umre… Zamisli sada – nastavio je – da postoji neko ko zna, dok mi ovo znamo o moljcu, to isto o nama. Neko kome je poznato na koji način, čime i zašto je omeđen ovaj naš prostor, ovo što mi smatramo nebom i uzimamo kao da je neomeđeno – neko ko nije u stanju da nam se približi i da nam da do znanja da postoji sem na jedan jedini način – ubijajući nas. Neko čijim se ruhom hranimo, neko ko našu smrt nosi u svojoj ruci kao jezik, kao sredstvo opštenja s nama. Ubijajući nas, taj nepoznati nas obaveštava o sebi. I mi kroz naše smrti, koje su možda samo pouka nekoj skitnici koja sedi kraj ubice, mi kažem, kroz naše smrti kao kroz odškrinuta vrata sagledavamo u poslednjem trenutku neka nova polja i neke druge međe…”

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