I've always found it wonderful that you can admire the lapidary work on a carbuncle, and perhaps nobody who has not read Sherlock Holmes will appreciate that you are not speaking of pus-filled excrescences on a person's face.

As a fine poem on lapidary work (with, no doubt, passing meditations upon life, death and strangers passing by), see W B Yeats' "Lapis Lazuli", with the (today unfortunate-sounding) brilliant finale: "Their eyes/Their ancient, glittering eyes are gay."

Apologies - all this from memory so may have misquoted.

cheer

the sunshine warrior