Ah; our path, unlike the path of life, shall branch, yet meet again, only to split, and meet further on once more. Thy quarrying quandary is quantified thus: that none of these figures, disregarding their several seeming capabilities, want what they do not have. Which is to say that our eyes are imperfect vessels, capable of only little discernment; and which is to say that those stone figures which in fact move us, though they do not move themselves, can yet be discerned as mere architecture, whatever their glory. False cognates, made for fleeting joy. Far harder to see such a quality within ourselves.
But look thou deeply, then, within perdurable David, or Laocoön's unending struggle: to no surprise, thou shalt find only lumpen stone, made of dust and of time. Look now within thyself! Thou shalt find more architecture, indeed a wondrous array of structures, rooms and halls, walls and doors - but all made of dust, however varied, and of time, however vast.
Thou wouldst chase thyself through this marvelous maze, determined therein to find its inhabitant; I would applaud thy efforts, maintaining the while that the structure is sufficient unto itself, for as long as it should hold together. Where thou see'st the handcraft of a Bernini, there do I see the mindless work of wind, of water, and of stars... and yet we can both delight in observing this dizzying structure, and marvel that it came from dust.