You don't see them often. For wherever the crowd is, they are not. These odd ones, not many. But from them come the few good paintings, the few good symphonies, the few good books and other works. And from the best of the strange ones, perhaps nothing. They are their own paintings, their own books, their own music, their own work. Sometimes I think I see them. Say a certain old man sitting on a certain bench, in a certain way, or a quick face going the other way in a passing automobile, or there's the certain motion of the hands of a bag boy or a bag girl while packing supermarket groceries. Sometimes it is even somebody you've been living with for sometime. Sometimes it is even somebody you've been living with for sometime. You will notice a lightning quick glance never seen from them before. Sometimes you will only note their existence suddenly in vivid recall some months, some years after they are gone. [...]

— Charles Bukowski; The Strongest of the Strange