My Inbox Problem is starting to resemble my Laundry Problem, and I’m not sure which is worse.
In any case, I dip in there — I’m not talking about laundry — after a sweet walk in today’s ridiculous Globally Warm day (up around 70° here in the City, and there hasn’t been a nip of snow yet since winter, or rather “winter,” started). The mission is to send some pearls to the trash. Along the way, I find this Pearl:
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)
I’m tickled to learn that Pearl S. Buck was born Pearl Comfort Sydenstricker, daughter of Absalom and Caroline. That’s some serious nomination there, that is.