The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human
creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him... a touch is a
blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an
ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure
is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering
necessity to create, create, create -- so that without the creating of
music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very
breath is cut off from him. He must create, must
pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not
really alive unless he is creating. -Pearl S. Buck, novelist, Nobel
laureate (26 Jun 1892-1973)
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