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, novelist, Nobel laureate
(1892-1973)