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—

February 10, 2010

Doar atat.

Intram in taxi. Te grabeai. Se intorcea prietenul, era pe drum deja de la Pitesti. Lacul Tei, caminul ASE. Mi-ai cerut caietul meu cu schite si ceva de scris. Ochisorii ghidusi si obrajii rosii. L-ai strans aproape de piept sa nu vad ce mazgalesti la sfarsit, antepenultima pagina. Mi l-ai intins inapoi "sa nu citesti pana nu ajungi acasa". Evident am dat sa-l deschid, l-ai inchis inapoi si ti-ai strans boticul intr-un nuuu disperat. Ma uitam doar la ochii tai si am simtit cum mainile ce strang caietul se inmoaie. L-am luat usor si am inceput sa caut. Vazusem The Libertine. Un film prost. Dar era de ales intre asta si Casanova. Nu vroiam niciunul ca primul film la care mergem sa fie un sirop... De fapt e greu sa judec acum cum a fost filmul. M-am uitat la tine, tu te uitai la mine, ne feream sa nu ne sarutam. Ca atare, n-am retinut nimic din film, doar tensiunea dintre noi. Gasesc ce ai notat inclinat intr-un colt de pagina. "Sunt uda toata". Doar atat.
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