And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
I would not change it.
William Shakespeare
Nature’s silence is its one remark, and every flake of world is a chip off that old mute and immutable block.
Annie Dillard
Is there a language of stone? A few unhewn rocks distributed on an expanse of gravel—could they be delivering a message? This is ultimately the question posed by the garden at Ryoanji in Kyoto. This garden is disconcerting through its not really being a garden: there is no green of trees to be seen, no scent of flowers to be caught, nor any birdsong to be heard. This desertlike space is enigmatic, an arid area where just fifteen rocks measure themselves against the immensity of the void. Five centuries old, the garden of Ryoanji is a surprisingly modern work of art. It is also a place where the human being can read, in the dark mirror of stone, the mystery that he carries within.
Francois Berthier