Quotes About Clay

I've had good results on clay during my junior years and I enjoy playing on clay to the opposite of what many media can say.

I've studied kings, so I'm very aware of the feet of clay of authority.

Flashy on the outside wasn't how Jesus rolled, and flashy on the inside doesn't come from us. We roll in minivans of clay so that God's awesomeness is clearly recognized for what it is: Him and not us.

Deep at the bottom of all our sense of uncleanness, of dirt, is the feeling, primitive, irresolvable, universal, of the sanctity of the body. Nothing in the material sphere can properly be dirty except the body. We speak of a dirty road, but in an uninhabited world moist clay would be no more dirty than hard rock; it is the possibility of clay adhering to a foot which makes it mire.

Because the earth calls. The soil, the rocks, the clay. It calls to us to remind us, to make sure we remember. The earth will ultimately win. It always does. We will, all of us, end our lives here. Even the birds.

In the English County of Sussex, upon the clay thereof, and upon a slight eminence of that clay, stood and stands a squire's house called Rackham.

He had better beware our wrath, great man though he is. What is he doing in his fury but insulting senseless clay?

Did you use a chainsaw?" Joey said. "I seem to recall you like chainsawa." "There wasn't a power outlet." Clay turned to me. "That's what I want for Father's Day, darling. A gas powered chainsaw.

The pot-thrower in the hut behind the shop, hands and forearms slick with clay, dreaming, yes, of the years in which a life took shape, when each press of a fingertip sent a deep track across a once smooth surface, changing the future, reshaping the past, and was this not as much chance as design? For all that intent could score a path, that the ripples sent up and down and outward could be surmised by decades of experience, was the outcome ever truly predictable?

Tehol wiped sweat from his brow. 'Give me some of that hen tea, will you?' 'With or without?' 'With or without what?' 'Feathers.' 'That depends. Are they clean feathers?' 'They are now,' Bugg replied. 'All right, then, since I can't think of anything more absurd. With.' Bugg reached for a clay cup. 'I knew I could count on you, Master.

He's a descendant of Barack's dog." Clay shrugged. "He's probably a Democrat.

Clay is in the Everlife now. We should be happy for him.

We are clay and nothing is real for us except the uncanny womb of Being into which we shall return.

Now I really make the little idea from clay, and I hold it in my hand. I can turn it, look at it from underneath, see it from one view, hold it against the sky, imagine it any size I like, and really be in control, almost like God creating something.

Memory depends mainly upon myth. Some even occurs in our minds, in actuality or in fantasy; we form it in memory, molding it like clay day after day - and soon we have made out of that event a myth. We then keep the myth in memory as a guide to future similar situations.

Blood covered his face and dirt had gummed to it, so that his visage was ocher in color and appeared like a clay sculpture illustrating some earlier phase of mankind when facial features were yet provisional.

But we are the sum of all the moments of our lives—all that is ours is in them: we cannot escape or conceal it. If the writer has used the clay of life to make his book, he has only used what all men must, what none can keep from using. Fiction is not fact, but fiction is fact selected and understood, fiction is fact arranged and charged with purpose.

Nonetheless, the fiery dreams did fade, and inside rooms made of clay and painted blue, sweeter visions were nourished.

Foolish is he who builds an empire where the sole foundation is of worldly clay

Mary Anning and I are hunting fossils on the beach, she her creatures, I my fish. Our eyes are fastened to the sand and rocks as we make our way along the shore at different paces, first one in front, then the other. Mary stops to split open a nodule and find what may be lodged within. I dig through clay, searching for something new and miraculous. We say very little, for we do not need to. We are silent together, each in her own world, knowing the other is just at her back.

Shadow! or Spirit! Whatever thou art, Which still doth inherit The whole or a part Of the form of thy birth, Of the mould of thy clay, Which returned to the earth, Re-appear to the day!

Davos had often heard it said that the wizards of Valyria did not cut and chisel as common masons did, but worked stone with fire and magic as a potter might work clay.

Maester Luwin made a little boy of clay, baked him till he was hard and brittle, dressed him in Bran's clothes, and flung him off a roof. Bran remembered the way he shattered. "But I never fall," he said, falling.

Later, Maester Luwin built a little pottery boy and dressed him in Bran's clothes and flung him off the wall into the yard below, to demonstrate what would happen to Bran if he fell. That had been fun, but afterward Bran just looked at the maester and said, "I'm not made of clay. And anyhow, I never fall.