Quotes About Stone

If you're asked: What is the silence? Respond: It is the first stone of the Wisdom's temple.

I had forgotten that God, or the world, or whatever carves the rules in stone, doesn't give you time off for good behavior.

It comes to him with the clarity of a sound, a neat small chink like metal hitting stone.

But for me, science is the true modern cathedral, an edifice of knowledge every bit as majestic as anything made of stone.

A fool can throw a stone in a pond that 100 wise men can not get out.

For the stone from the top for geologists, the knowledge of the limits of endurance for the doctors, but above all for the spirit of adventure to keep alive the soul of man.

It was an ancient English church of that school of architecture known to scholars as A Big Pile of Rocks.

It's like a memorial to Atlantis or Lyonesse: these are the stone buoys that mark a drowned world.

Under the moon, the bright white moon, Lies a pool, a flat silver pool, Among the brakes and brambles, And black-heart pines. Falls a stone, a living stone, Cracks the moon, the bright white moon, Among the brakes and brambles, And black-heart pines. Shards of light, swords of light, Ripple 'cross the pool, The quiet mere, the still tarn, The lonely lake there. In the night, the dark and heavy night, Flutter shadows, confused shadows, Where once …

Later, the stone cracks open and a baby dragon emerges. When Eragon touches her, a silvery mark appears on his palm, and an irrevocable bond is forged between their minds, making Eragon one of the legendary Dragon Riders. He names the dragon Saphira, after a dragon mentioned by the village storyteller, Brom.

But can I really will anything? At this moment I feel the pleasure of being stone, the sun warms me, the wind makes acceptable this adjustment of my body, I have no intention of ceasing to be a stone. Why? Because I like it. So then I too am slave to a passion, which advises me against wanting freely its opposite. However, willing, I could will. And yet I do not. How much freer am I than a stone?

Oh, love has various properties: first the soul grows tender, then it sickens . . . but then it feels the true warmth of divine love and cries out and moans and becomes as stone flung in the forge to melt into lime, and it crackles, licked by the flame. . . .

And of course Tom's dad lives there, in Eyam, so he could kill two birds with one stone.

And must I now begin to doubt - who never doubted all these years? My heart is stone, and still it trembles. The world I have known is lost in the shadows. Is he from heaven or from hell? And does he know, that granting me my life today, this man has killed me, even so. - Javert

To a gargoyle on the ramparts of Notre Dame as Esmeralda rides off with Gringoire Quasimodo says. Why was I not made of stone like thee?

Winter changes into stone the water of heaven and the heart of man.

The barber ran to the broken window, and saw Gavroche, who was running with all his might towards the Saint Jean market. On passing the barber's shop, Gavroche, who had the two children on his mind, could not resist the desire to bid him good day, and had sent a stone through his sash. See! screamed the barber, who from white had become blue, he makes mischief. What has anybody done to this Gamin?

The driver, a black silhouette upon his box, whipped up his bony horses. Icy silence in the coach. Marius, motionless, his body braced in the corner of the carriage, his head dropping down upon his breast, his arms hanging, his legs rigid, appeared to await nothing now but a coffin; Jean Valjean seemed made of shadow, and Javert of stone.

In becoming dirt, she has been turned to stone. To touch her is to feel a chill.

At that time, for the thought written in stone, there existed a privilege perfectly comparable to our present liberty of the press. It was the liberty of architecture.

Winter changes the water of heaven and the heart of man into a stone.

White sheets flapped in the breeze and roses tumbled like laughter along the ancient stone wall that hid her property from the road.

Freud was a hero. He descended to the "Underworld" and met there stark terrors. He carried with him his theory as a Medusa's head which turned these terrors to stone. We who follow Freud have the benefit of the knowledge he brought back with him and conveyed to us. He survived. We must see of we now can survive without using a theory that is in some measure an instrument of defence.

The truth, she found, felt smooth, like a skipping stone in the palm of your hand.