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 21, 2008, 10:26 AM

"Whirlwind take me there
Where I will be his lady fair
Sheets of night hiding us
Gusts of wind riding us
I'm blown away into his hands
I'm weak and high, can barely stand
In the web of dizzy leaves
Virgins all, elude the trees
Touch me now, touch me
The black acres are claiming me
They're claiming me
He holds me up like a babe
Pressing close I can't behave
I need to have this little death
I'm up against his downy chest
In the web of dizzy leaves
Virgins all, elude the trees
The chill is flush with burning flesh
It's so refined this little death
Touch me now, touch me
The black acres are claiming me
They're claiming me
Touch me now, touch me
The black acres are claiming me
They're claiming me
Black acres
I'm running away from home
And the wind, the wind is blowin'
And the weathervane
Its heathen song
Lulls the world
With silver tongue"
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