For 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 so… - Pearl S. Buck
" "For 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 — to create — to create — so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of beauty and meaning his very breath is cut off from him. He must create. He must pour out creation. By some strange unknown pressing inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating.
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About Pearl S. Buck
Pearl Sydenstricker Buck (born Pearl Comfort Sydenstricker; Chinese: 赛珍珠; Pinyin: Sài Zhēnzhū; 26 June 1892 – 6 March 1973), primarily known as Pearl S. Buck, was a prolific American writer. In 1938, she became the first American woman to win the Nobel Prize for Literature.
Biography information from Wikiquote
Also Known As
Pen Names:
John Sedges
Birth Name:
Pearl Comfort Sydenstricker
Native Name:
Pearl Comfort Sydenstricker Buck Walsh
Alternative Names:
Pearl Buck
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Pearl Sydenstricker Buck
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Pearl Sydenstricker
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Sai Zhenzhu
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Pearl Comfort Sydenstricker Buck
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Pirl Bak
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Additional quotes by Pearl S. Buck
I believe with all my heart that jimcrow is wicked and I know that it is a rotten core in our society. I know that we cannot say that we are a full democracy so long as jimcrow exists anywhere in our country. I will fight against it and refuse to countenance it in all was that I can, as long as I live. And yet I know that were all jimcrow laws to be abolished tomorrow, the war for the lberation of mankind would still not be won here. There would still be those not free, not equal.
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.
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