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 19, 2008, 5:21 PM

"Sunt oare hipnotizata, fascinata de rau pentru ca nu am nicio picatura de rau in mine? Sau in mine se afla ascuns raul cel mai mare?"
asa ma simt si eu fascinata de negru, violenta, rau, chin, disperare, vulgaritate, brutalitate, perversitate, obsesie. simt ca am nevoie de ele. ma innebunesc. le caut peste tot, in poze, in imagini, in filme, in haine. le vreau din tine, cu tot cu nebunie si pasiune, cu disperare si durere. si sa fim bine. impreuna.
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