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 7, 2010

March 17, 2008, 12:25 AM

citesc in continuare din jurnalul lui anais si ma minunez de asemanarile dintre trairile ei (ganduri, emotii, impresii, senzatii, frici) si trairile mele. pana la un anumit moment din carte e ca si cum as citi despre mine. as putea cu usurinta inlocui numele ei cu al meu. pana si ceea ce-i spune psihologul la care merge... si in psihanaliza lui ma regasesc si parca ar fi viata mea pe tapet.

am gasit la FNAC tot jurnalul ei. nu mi l-am luat inca. nu stiu cat e fiction si cat realitate, dar imi place. intuiam ca am o latura voyeurista foarte accentuata, ca ma fascineaza intimitaturile, trasul cu ochiul, jurnalele. acum e o certitudine.

henry o vede pe anais o printesa, dar una care stie sa futa. ea e perversa...

bonne nuit amour amour
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