For pain words are lacking. there should be cries, cracks, fissures, whiteness passing over chintz covers, interference with the sense of time, of space ; the sense also of extreme fixity in passing objects ; and sounds very remote and then very close ; flesh being gashed and blood sparting, a joint suddenly twisted - beneath all of which appears something very important, yet remote, to be just held in solitude. — virginia woolf, the waves
That's the difference between the serious artist and the craftsman--the craftsman can take material and because of his abilities do a professional job of it. the serious artist, like proust, is like an object caught by a wave and swept to shore. he's obsessed by his material; it's like a venom working in his blood and the art is the antidote.