Stone Cutter Quotes

He repeated until his dying day that there was no one with more common sense, no stone cutter more obstinate, no manager more lucid or dangerous, than a poet.

Gulls wheel through spokes of sunlight over gracious roofs and dowdy thatch, snatching entrails at the marketplace and escaping over cloistered gardens, spike topped walls and treble-bolted doors. Gulls alight on whitewashed gables, creaking pagodas and dung-ripe stables; circle over towers and cavernous bells and over hidden squares where urns of urine sit by covered wells, watched by mule-drivers, mules and wolf-snouted dogs, ignored by hunch-backed makers of clogs; gather speed up the stoned-in Nakashima River and fly beneath the arches of its bridges, glimpsed form kitchen doors, watched by farmers walking high, stony ridges. Gulls fly through clouds of steam from laundries' vats; over kites unthreading corpses of cats; over scholars glimpsing truth in fragile patterns; over bath-house adulterers, heartbroken slatterns; fishwives dismembering lobsters and crabs; their husbands gutting mackerel on slabs; woodcutters' sons sharpening axes; candle-makers, rolling waxes; flint-eyed officials milking taxes; etiolated lacquerers; mottle-skinned dyers; imprecise soothsayers; unblinking liars; weavers of mats; cutters of rushes; ink-lipped calligraphers dipping brushes; booksellers ruined by unsold books; ladies-in-waiting; tasters; dressers; filching page-boys; runny-nosed cooks; sunless attic nooks where seamstresses prick calloused fingers; limping malingerers; swineherds; swindlers; lip-chewed debtors rich in excuses; heard-it-all creditors tightening nooses; prisoners haunted by happier lives and ageing rakes by other men's wives; skeletal tutors goaded to fits; firemen-turned-looters when occasion permits; tongue-tied witnesses; purchased judges; mothers-in-law nurturing briars and grudges; apothecaries grinding powders with mortars; palanquins carrying not-yet-wed daughters; silent nuns; nine-year-old whores; the once-were-beautiful gnawed by sores; statues of Jizo anointed with posies; syphilitics sneezing through rotted-off noses; potters; barbers; hawkers of oil; tanners; cutlers; carters of night-soil; gate-keepers; bee-keepers; blacksmiths and drapers; torturers; wet-nurses; perjurers; cut-purses; the newborn; the growing; the strong-willed and pliant; the ailing; the dying; the weak and defiant; over the roof of a painter withdrawn first from the world, then his family, and down into a masterpiece that has, in the end, withdrawn from its creator; and around again, where their flight began, over the balcony of the Room of Last Chrysanthemum, where a puddle from last night's rain is evaporating; a puddle in which Magistrate Shiroyama observes the blurred reflections of gulls wheeling through spokes of sunlight. This world, he thinks, contains just one masterpiece, and that is itself.

Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you fore defeated Challengers of oblivion Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down, The square-limbed Roman letters Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain. The poet as well Builds his monument mockingly; For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun Die blind and blacken to the heart: Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained thoughts found The honey of peace in old poems.

We made our home on the wind, between sand and stars.

Can one be lost, when no destination awaits? When no home longs for one’s return?

Look at a stone cutter hammering away at his rock, perhaps a hundred times without as much as a crack showing in it. Yet at the hundred-and-first blow it will split in two, and I know it was not the last blow that did it, but all that had gone before.

When nothing seems to help, I go look at a stone cutter hammering away at his rock. Perhaps a hundred times without as much as a crack showing in it. Yet at the hundred and first blow it will split in two and I know it was not thus last blow that did it but all that has gone before.

There was once a stone cutter who was dissatisfied with himself and with his position in life. One day he passed a wealthy merchant's house. Through the open gateway, he saw many fine possessions and important visitors. "How powerful that merchant must be!" thought the stone cutter. He became very envious and wished that he could be like the merchant. To his great surprise, he suddenly became the merchant, enjoying more luxuries and power than he had ever imagined, but envied and detested by those less wealthy than himself. Soon a high official passed by, carried in a sedan chair, accompanied by attendants and escorted by soldiers beating gongs. Everyone, no matter how wealthy, had to bow low before the procession. "How powerful that official is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be a high official!" Then he became the high official, carried everywhere in his embroidered sedan chair, feared and hated by the people all around. It was a hot summer day, so the official felt very uncomfortable in the sticky sedan chair. He looked up at the sun. It shone proudly in the sky, unaffected by his presence. "How powerful the sun is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be the sun!" Then he became the sun, shining fiercely down on everyone, scorching the fields, cursed by the farmers and laborers. But a huge black cloud moved between him and the earth, so that his light could no longer shine on everything below. "How powerful that storm cloud is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be a cloud!" Then he became the cloud, flooding the fields and villages, shouted at by everyone. But soon he found that he was being pushed away by some great force, and realized that it was the wind. "How powerful it is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be the wind!" Then he became the wind, blowing tiles off the roofs of houses, uprooting trees, feared and hated by all below him. But after a while, he ran up against something that would not move, no matter how forcefully he blew against it - a huge, towering rock. "How powerful that rock is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be a rock!" Then he became the rock, more powerful than anything else on earth. But as he stood there, he heard the sound of a hammer pounding a chisel into the hard surface, and felt himself being changed. "What could be more powerful than I, the rock?" he thought. He looked down and saw far below him the figure of a stone cutter.

The women we become after children, she typed, then stopped to adjust the angle of the paper....We change shape, she continued, we buy low-heeled shoes, we cut off our long hair, We begin to carry in our bags half-eaten rusks, a small tractor, a shred of beloved fabric, a plastic doll. We lose muscle tone, sleep, reason, persoective. Our hearts begin to live outside our bodies. They breathe, they eat, they crawl and-look!-they walk, they begin to speak to us. We learn that we must sometimes walk an inch at a time, to stop and examine every stick, every stone, every squashed tin along the way. We get used to not getting where we were going. We learn to darn, perhaps to cook, to patch knees of dungarees. We get used to living with a love that suffuses us, suffocates us, blinds us, controls us. We live, We contemplate our bodies, our stretched skin, those threads of silver around our brows, our strangely enlarged feet. We learn to look less in the mirror. We put our dry-clean-only clothes to the back of the wardrobe. Eventually we throw them away. We school ourselves to stop saying 'shit' and 'damn' and learn to say 'my goodness' and 'heavens above.' We give up smoking, we color our hair, we search the vistas of parks, swimming-pools, libraries, cafes for others of our kind. We know each other by our pushchairs, our sleepless gazes, the beakers we carry. We learn how to cool a fever, ease a cough, the four indicators of meningitis, that one must sometimes push a swing for two hours. We buy biscuit cutters, washable paints, aprons, plastic bowls. We no longer tolerate delayed buses, fighting in the street, smoking in restaurants, sex after midnight, inconsistency, laziness, being cold. We contemplate younger women as they pass us in the street, with their cigarettes, their makeup, their tight-seamed dresses, their tiny handbags, their smooth washed hair, and we turn away, we put down our heads, we keep on pushing the pram up the hill.

The story…travels wheresoever the truth shepherds it. It possesses no rudder that I might lay my hand upon, to guide it wherever I choose. I am at its mercy

To produce a masterpiece requires grand ideas, unswerving commitment to the dream, years of sweat and pain…Such beauty does not come cheaply.

I knew it!" he cried, jubilant. "I thought 'twas you, but there's more of you now. You should've seen the likes of her, boys," he said, turning towards the other convicts as he pointed at Kel. "We was all outlaws, livin' on the edges, and this bunch of pages stumbled into our camp. We chased 'em back in a canyon, and her -" he jabbed his finger at Kel - "she gutted ol' Breakbone Dell, and him the meanest dog-skinner you'd ever hope to meet. Stood there afoot, her and her spear, cool as meltwater with Breakbone ridin' down on her with that neck-cutter sword of his. First time she got 'im in the leg, second in the tripes, and he was done. Her and six lads held us all back, just them. There she was, eyes like stone and that bloody spear in her hand. Lady." He bowed deep. Kel looked at him, not sure what to say. Finally she asked, "What's your name, soldier?" "Me? Gilab Lofts - Gil. Lady. It's - it's good to see you well." He bowed again and returned to his seat, whispering with the men on either side of him. Kel waited for them to quiet once again before she said ruefully, "I'm not sure that being known for gutting a man is exactly a recommendation for a commander." "It is in the north!" cried someone. Several men laughed outright; others grinned.

I saw the mountain, impassible, cavernous, secret, where from morning to night I’d hear nothing but the wind, the curlews, the clink like distant silver of the stone-cutters’ hammers.

There, publicly throwing off the mask under which he had hitherto concealed his real character and feelings, he made a speech painting in vivid the cause of her death was an even bitterer and more dreadful thing than the death itself. He went on to speak of the king's arrogant and tyrannical behavior; of the sufferings of the commons condemned to labor underground clearing or constructing ditches and sewers; of gallant Romans - soldiers who had beaten in battle all neighboring peoples - robbed of their swords and turned into stone-cutters and artisans. He reminded them of the foul murder of Servius Tullius, of the daughter who drove her carriage over her father's corpse, in violation of the most sacred of relationships - a crime which God alone could punish. Doubtless he told them of other, and worse, things, brought to his mind in the heat of the moment and by the sense of this latest outrage, which still lived in his eye and pressed upon his heart; but a mere historian can hardly record them. The effect of his words was immediate: the populace took fire, and were brought to demand the abrogation of the king's authority and the exile of himself and his family.

The sound I liked best had nothing noble about it. It was the barking of the dogs, at night, in the clusters of hovels up in the hills, where the stone-cutters lived, like generations of stone-cutters before them. it came down to me where I lay, in the house in the plain, wild and soft, at the limit of earshot, soon weary. The dogs of the valley replied with their gross bay all fangs and jaws and foam...

Through streets Cutter had once known now made strange by mortars, with neglected bunting in the colours of factions, with signs proclaiming idiot theories or new churches, new things, new ways of being, split and peeling. The raucousness and vigour were gone from the streets but still sensible in echo, in the buildings themselves: palimpsests of history, epochs, wars, other revolts embedded in their stones.

This is perhaps the real secret of heroism. The rational basis of heroism is dependent upon the decision that one's own life cannot be worth as much as certain abstract common ideals. But I believe that instinctive or impulsive heroism is much more frequently independent of such motivation and simply defies danger on the assurance which animated Hans, the stone-cutter, a character in Anzengruber, who always said to himself: Nothing can happen to me.

Gulls wheel through spokes of sunlight over gracious roofs and dowdy thatch, snatching entrails at the marketplace and escaping over cloistered gardens, spike-topped walls and treble-bolted doors. Gulls alight on whitewashed gables, creaking pagodas and dung-ripe stables; circle over towers and cavernous bells and over hidden squares where urns of urine sit by covered wells, watched by mule-drivers, mules and wolf-snouted dogs, ignored by hunchbacked makers of clogs; gather speed up the stoned-in Nakashima River and fly beneath the arches of its bridges, glimpsed from kitchen doors, watched by farmers walking high, stony ridges. Gulls fly through clouds of steam from laundries’ vats; over kites unthreading corpses of cats; over scholars glimpsing truth in fragile patterns; over bath-house adulterers; heartbroken slatterns; fishwives dismembering lobsters and crabs; their husbands gutting mackerel on slabs; woodcutters’ sons sharpening axes; candle-makers, rolling waxes; flint-eyed officials milking taxes; etoliated lacquerers; mottled-skinned dyers; imprecise soothsayers; unblinking liars; weavers of mats; cutters of rushes; ink-lipped calligraphers dipping brushes; booksellers ruined by unsold books; ladies-in-waiting; tasters; dressers; filching page-boys; runny-nosed cooks; sunless attic nooks where seamstresses prick calloused fingers; limping malingerers; swineherds; swindlers; lip-chewed debtors rich in excuses; heard-it-all creditors tightening nooses; prisoners haunted by happier lives and ageing rakes by other men’s wives; skeletal tutors goaded to fits; firemen-turned-looters when occasion permits; tongue-tied witnesses; purchased judges; mothers-in-law nurturing briars and grudges; apothecaries grinding powders with mortars; palanquins carrying not-yet-wed daughters; silent nuns; nine-year-old whores; the once-were-beautiful gnawed by sores; statues of Jizo anointed with posies; syphilitics sneezing through rotted-off noses; potters; barbers; hawkers of oil; tanners; cutlers; carters of night-soil; gate-keepers; bee-keepers; blacksmiths and drapers; torturers; wet-nurses; perjurers; cut-purses; the newborn; the growing; the strong-willed and pliant; the ailing; the dying; the weak and defiant; over the roof of a painter withdrawn first from the world, then his family, and down into a masterpiece that has, in the end, withdrawn from its creator; and around again, where their flight began, over the balcony of the Room of the Last Chrysanthemum, where a puddle from last night’s rain is evaporating; a puddle in which Magistrate Shiroyama observes the blurred reflections of gulls wheeling through spokes of sunlight. This world, he thinks, contains just one masterpiece, and that is itself.

So, I’ll bring you in under colors—they won’t shell a cutter, I don’t think, not until they see what’s what—and deliver you as an official visitor of some sort. The general thought perhaps you might be bringing some message to the English consul there, but of course you’ll know best about that.” “Oh, indeed.” It couldn’t be patricide, could it? he thought. Strangling a stepfather, particularly under the circumstances… “It’s all right, me lord,” Tom put in helpfully. “I’ve brought your full-dress uniform. Just in case you might need it.

Look at a stone cutter hammering away at his rock, perhaps a hundred times without as much as a crack showing in it. Yet at the hundred-and-first blow it will split in two, and I know it was not the last blow that did it, but all that had gone before

obstreperous.

No. You don’t. You only imagine that you do. I thought I knew it all until the first time. Even then, I only learned enough to know that I didn’t know a damned thing.

A pall of hopelessness fell over them. The universe aligned against them. Why? It struck Max that the universe ought to find better targets. Had to be plenty of psychopaths and deadbeats out there, right? Why pick on a couple of kids? The universe could be a stone-cold asshole sometimes.

SHORTY JOHNSON’S BISCUITS AND GRAVY Serves 4 (Double these recipes for hearty appetites!)   BUTTERMILK BISCUITS 2 cups all-purpose flour* 2 teaspoons baking powder ½ teaspoon baking soda ¾ teaspoon salt 1/3 cup Crisco, chilled ¾ cup buttermilk   COUNTRY SAUSAGE GRAVY 1 pound loose pork sausage meat (or diced links) 3 tablespoons flour 2 cups whole milk Salt and pepper to taste   For biscuits: Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Into sifted flour*, stir baking powder, soda, and salt; then cut in Crisco until mixture resembles coarse meal. Add buttermilk. Stir lightly until ingredients are moistened. Form dough into a ball and transfer to a lightly floured work surface. Knead about 6 times (too much kneading will make tough biscuits!). Roll to ½-inch thickness. Cut into 2-inch disks with biscuit cutter (or inverted drinking glass). Arrange on a lightly oiled baking sheet so that the biscuits are not touching. Bake 16 minutes or until biscuits have risen and are golden-brown.   For gravy: While biscuits are baking, prepare sausage gravy by browning sausage in a heavy, well-seasoned iron skillet over medium-high heat until cooked through, stirring frequently to break up meat. Using a slotted spoon, transfer browned sausage to a bowl and set aside. Discard all but 3 tablespoons of pan drippings. Return skillet to medium heat. Sprinkle flour into drippings and whisk 2–3 minutes until lightly browned. Whisk in milk. Increase heat to medium-high and stir constantly, 2–3 minutes, or until it begins to bubble and thicken. Return sausage to gravy, reduce heat, and simmer 1–2 minutes, until heated through. Season with salt and pepper to taste. (Use lots of black pepper!)   NOTE: Gravy can be prepared using drippings from fried bacon, chicken, steak, or pork chops too! For those on a budget, you can even make gravy from fried bologna drippings!!!!   *If using unbleached self-rising flour, omit the powder, soda, and salt.

…That God will open up to us a door for the word, so that we may speak forth the mystery of Christ.… —Colossians 4:3 (NAS) Because of a staffing snag, our church’s teen class on Sundays had dwindled to practically no one. I offered to step in as teacher. So began a string of Sunday morning “sit-ins.” Many times I waited alone. But there was the day a boy dropped by with two cousins in tow. The sisters’ troubled home situation in another state had them temporarily residing with their aunt. We discussed the story of the Bible’s “cutter”— a wild man living among the tombs who cut himself with stones—and how Jesus healed him. The girls absorbed every word of this account of things gone wrong made right. They needed such hope. Another morning there was one girl. We each created a “word portrait” of ourselves and then explored the Bible’s portrait of Jesus. For an hour we talked animatedly about ourselves and Jesus. Where we were like Him (in joy and caring and love for nature and children) and where we had work to do (in areas of trust and self-control). She liked that Jesus was outside the mainstream of His day. She, too, felt different from others and was encouraged in her authenticity. The weeks of showing up every Sunday “just in case” had a reason. God wanted to open doors in these young lives…and made me a doorkeeper. Father, what I do for You matters…even if it's to be a doorkeeper, waiting “just in case.” —Carol Knapp Digging Deeper: Ps 84:10; Mt 19:14; Jas 3:18

I do have a single tale. It is a story of love found and love lost – of ambition and madness – of paradise and torment.

Stone-cutter’s Credo, as described by photographer and activist Jacob Riis as he contemplated the slow pace of social reform: When nothing seems to help, I go and look at a stonecutter hammering away at his rock perhaps a hundred times without as much as a crack showing in it. Yet at the hundred and first blow it will split in two, and I know it was not that blow that did it, but all that had gone before.

Things are different out here. It’s important to know when to go along to get along. I know an AST sergeant who gives each new trooper a long

But it was the broken statue in the corner that drew Elizabeth's attention: a seraphim in despair leaned casually there against the back gate. "That's Beulah," said Cutter, following her gaze. "Well, for Beulah. Beulah was my great-grandmother and the angel was there on her grave till the storm of sixty-eight knocked her over. She's my garden angel." "Your garden angel?" "When I was about seven or so, I heard about guardian angels, how everyone's supposed to have one. Only I heard it garden angel. And I thought of Beulah's angel in the dead garden. I knew she was my garden angel." Cutter's hands fluttered over the statue, her touch reverent, light, brushing off leaves, stroking the stone face, like feeling the forehead of a feverish child. Moving closer, Elizabeth saw that Beulah was not in despair after all. She was just waking up, maybe, shaking off an afternoon doze, one arm thrown over her face, a dimple in the elbow of a plump arm, her mighty wings curled around her body like wilted leaves. "I can't tell you how many times I've thought of her before exams, my driver's test, job interviews, even when Gran died. I close my eyes and picture her and I know things will be all right. At least they seem better.

Yes, I have certainly seen and heard much. But there were not many heroes. We men are a flawed and rebellious herd. Our aspirations are lofty, but our doing is mired deep in the troubles of our own muddy mess.

Look at a stone cutter hammering away at his rock, perhaps a hundred times without so much a crack showing in it. Yet at the hundred-and-first blow it will split in two, and I know it was not the last blow that did it, but all that had gone before. —JACOB RIIS

Withdrawal was having your skull opened with a chisel while someone scraped out your brain with a spoon.

Pooling on the grimy asphalt of a city street or oozing onto the dirt floor of a mud hut, blood is placidly silent and more akin to used motor oil or spilled chocolate syrup than a vital life force. But smeared and sprayed with all the attendant gore against the crystalline white backdrop of snow, it becomes the visual equivalent of a scream.

Bob sat there stoned, his mind alternating between fantasies of gnawing on Hank's little fingers and pushing away the growing anxiety of graduation, with its implicit promises of a nine-to-five job, IRS-whittled paychecks, screaming kids, car in the shop, Pop in Ma's doghouse again, and settling into an easy chair watching the Reds and drinking a Schlitz for season after season until none of the kids could be sure where the chair ended and Pop began. And so on until death. Bob thought, If that guy can do it, I can. I'm going to learn to play the guitar.

For any story to be worth the telling—or the hearing—it must spring from the truth. If not, it is nothing more than the final flow of the Yorden, as its fresh waters are swallowed up in the undrinkable tears of the Salt Sea.

this story…seems only good for the breaking of one’s heart. Can you not add a little honey, to sweeten it for our ears?

The story entangled itself in the substance of his heart, like the roots of a cedar of Lebanon in the heart of the earth. He wondered if he would ever pry it loose.

At last, everything comes to its own end…All things must die. The heavens will be rolled up like a scroll, and time itself will be closed like a tomb.

Some might be swayed by clever answers, but true accomplishments will always outweigh cunning.

Are you looking for Home Builders in Chattanooga Custom Home Builder Chattanooga Serving Chattanooga, Lookout Mountain & Surrounding Areas We love to build homes for people. Our approach to each job is as unique as the individual. We truly are a custom home builder Chattanooga and you will never get an A, B or C selection from us. Our homes are as unique as our clients. Our goal in every project is to produce a timeless and personal expression of our client's dreams. We hope to enhance the lives of those who inhabit each home we build. You can structure and make, and manufacture the most superb spot on the planet. In any case, it takes individuals to make the fantasy a reality. This home is drywall complete, now ready for tile, hardwoods, and trim! Cole Construction is building the largest home under construction in Chattanooga! We are excited to be starting interior finishes as the selections vary greatly from shiplap to reclaimed weathered barn wood, rough sawn beams, tile, stone and more. Follow along with us as we detail this beautifully crafted home! Are you following our 5 months build? 100% completely custom, no A, B, or C options. We are aiming to compete with the cookie-cutter residential build timelines while executing completely unique new projects every time. This means new plans, new land, and unknown materials. Chattanooga’s premier custom home builder Chattanooga- Cole Construction has been a leading the way since 2009, specializing in new builds and home remodels." For more info, Please visit our website.

father to bury

He repeated until his dying day that there was no one with more common sense, no stone cutter more obstinate, no manager more lucid or dangerous, than a poet.

neither worry over

Ajar of peanut

2 eggs ⅓ cup sour cream Cook beef, onion, and garlic in oil in cast iron or other oven-safe frying pan until meat is done. Drain off excess fat. Combine flour, chili powder, oregano, and cumin, then sprinkle over meat. Stir, cooking mixture over medium heat for one minute. Mix in green chilies and tomatoes with juice. Cover with shredded cheese and set aside. Mix eggs and sour cream into corn muffin mix until dry ingredients are moistened. Fold in drained corn. Space rounded spoonfuls of cornbread mixture evenly on top of cheese. Bake at 375 for 20 to 30 minutes—until corn dumplings are browned and mixture is bubbling. Remove from oven and let stand for 10 minutes.

2 pounds ground beef 1 onion, diced 3 cloves garlic, minced 1 Tablespoon oil 2 Tablespoons chili powder 2 teaspoons dried oregano 1 teaspoon ground cumin 2 Tablespoons flour 1 28 oz can diced tomatoes with juice 1 7 oz can diced green chilies 2 to 3 cups grated cheddar cheese Salt and pepper to taste 1 8½ oz package corn muffin mix 1 12 oz can whole kernel corn, drained