The lamp was shattered in large chunks, with some small fragments here and there. I looked at the break, and I felt the texture of the clay, and I yowled in outrage at the shoddy workmanship. This clay was only fired once. It was fired straight from dry to done, not paused at bisque somewhere in between and allowed to reach full hardness.
Then I giggled at myself, because only the mildly potterygeeky daughter of a potter would yowl over such a thing.