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


November 28, 2007, 6:02 PM


Whenever he tells me on the phone he will come soon to me and be with me and only me, the single thought that runs through my head is he won't ever come. A few minutes later I call him again with a sad shivering voice.
If gift certificates would work for him mine it would say:
Don't wait til tomorrow. You can have it today. Love


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