The novelist Pearl Buck argued that artists are people who tend to be extremely sensitive
to any emotional input:
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 By some strange unknown inward urgency, he is not really alive unless he is
creating.