The truly creative mind in any field is
no more than this: A human
creature born abnormally, inhumanely sensitive.
To them... 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, their very breath is cut off...
They must create, must
pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency they are
not really alive unless they are creating.
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