Slate Quarry Quotes

while the men worked in the slate quarries,” Bruhn said. “It was magical.

They spent their first night in America sleeping on the floor of a tavern on Mulberry Street, in Manhattan’s Little Italy. Then they ventured west, eventually finding jobs in a slate quarry ninety miles west of the city near the town of Bangor, Pennsylvania. The following year, fifteen Rosetans left Italy

My own words betray the fact that I apparently believe in luck, at some visceral level. Luck would have to be some external agency powerful enough to control what happens; in which case, it meets the basic criteria for being God. In other regards, of course, it has little to do with the form that God conventionally takes. It doesn’t seem to worry about whether or not you’ve been good; nor does it give a damn if you pray to it. It’s there for a while, and then it goes away again. I think of it as the way everything in the house shakes when one of those heavy carts loaded with slate goes by on the way up from the quarries. The cart has its own agenda, which has nothing at all to do with me, but it makes my house shake, which affects me, so understandably and misguidedly I take it personally.

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Like everything else in Balla, they were made of slate. The men worked them during slack times at the quarry. That’s what you did when you found a free half-hour: you worked your own headstone, cutting the cross or the crown at the top, and then carving your name and birthdate under ‘Sacred to the Memory of’ and a bas-relief opened book, leaving only the final date to be carved by another hand.

There were trees below her, so that she looked out over the tops of them, and there were trees on both sides and above; the little quarry was a dimple in the hill, bathed in sunshine, redolent with the scent of sun-warmed pines. At the bottom of the hill the gray houses of Ryddelton clustered, with their gray slate roofs and curls of smoke rising from their chimneys. In the midst of the town rose the church spire. Beyond the town a road ran, curving away into the distance. The valley itself stretched southward, shallow and sunlit, bounded by rolling hills clad with green grass and patches of brilliant purple heather and dark pine woods, and above the hills was the pale blue sky with fat white clouds floating in it. Along the floor of the valley wound the river, sparkling in the sunshine; it wound among woods and yellow cornfields and bright green meadows full of cattle that looked like toys, and over it all was a faint haze, an almost imperceptible opal-tinted haze that softened the brightness of the colors. Green it was, green and peaceful, an oasis of peace in a land at war.