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To be sure, I had no illusions as to the standing of Epicrates in his field. - (Plunder of Gor, Chapter 40, Sentence #61)

"Is Master," I said, to he whom I took to be Epicrates, "Master Epicrates, Master Potter of Ar?" "That is he," said Lady Delia. "Look at my shop," he said. "Does it appear to be the shop of a master potter? Where is the yard, the dozen ovens, the jars of pigments and glazes, the slaves and apprentices at their wheels?" "He will not trust work to menials," said Lady Delia. To be sure, I had no illusions as to the standing of Epicrates in his field. He was, by all accounts, a fine potter, and an honest one, but his work, as far as I knew, had never been singled out in the city, nor, say, had it been displayed in, let alone won prizes in, the exhibitions held in the great Sardar fairs. One might mention, in passing, that Goreans commonly view pottery as an art, and, in many cases, as a fine art, as much so as sculpture and painting. There are few things as beautiful as a well-formed, well-painted, well-glazed vase. - (Plunder of Gor)