we find evidence of human habitation, we find not only human artifacts but artifacts made with care and beauty. A flint arrowhead is not only efficient—it carries the deadly elegance of a lethal thing. The cave paintings of southern France may have served some unknown ritual purpose, but they are also filled with intentional truth and exquisite grace. If God is the Creator—as all religions seem to agree—then human beings live into the image with passion and a certain fervent abandonment, as if some pressure of the spirit could be released in no other way.
I recently read of a study that had rated 95 percent of preschool children but only 5 percent of college graduates as “highly creative.” At the time I was properly appalled; today, more pragmatically, I distrust the study itself. Perhaps the definitions were too limited, the criteria too strict; I see too much creativity exploding all around me to believe it is being produced by only a small percentage of the population.
Enough people write to keep a small industry busy filling their needs. Not everyone can be a Shakespeare or a Dante, but some will be skilled enough to keep the bookstores overflowing.
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