Pearl Buck Quotes

A collection of quotes by Pearl Buck.

Pearl Buck was an American writer and novelist, born on June 26, 1892, in Hillsboro, West Virginia. She spent most of her childhood in China, as her parents were missionaries. Speaking both English and Chinese fluently, Buck developed a deep understanding of Chinese culture and society, which would later greatly influence her literary works.

Buck's most famous novel, "The Good Earth," published in 1931, earned her the Pulitzer Prize and a Nobel Prize in Literature, making her the first American woman to receive this prestigious award. The novel delves into the life of a Chinese peasant farmer and his struggles with poverty and ambition. It became a bestseller and brought international recognition to Buck as a prominent writer.

Throughout her prolific career, Buck wrote over 100 works, including novels, short stories, and biographies. Her writings often centered around themes of the Chinese society, marriage, and the experiences of women. Reflecting her deep empathy for people of diverse backgrounds, she portrayed the experiences of Asian Americans and mixed-race children living in the United States during a time of racial tension.

Pearl Buck's contributions to literature and her efforts to promote cross-cultural understanding earned her immense respect and admiration. She dedicated her life to advocating for human rights, particularly the rights of women and children. Buck passed away on March 6, 1973, leaving behind a powerful legacy of bridging cultures through her exceptional storytelling.

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.