Quotes About Work

Or, to put it more succinctly: Writing professionally is a business. If you want to write professionally, you have to approach writing in a professional manner—which is to say, you have to approach it with the intent of actually making money doing it. This means: One: It takes work. Lots and lots and lots of work. Two: Sometimes, work sucks. Three: But you do it anyway because that's your job. The previous three rules, incidentally, work

I have an opening on my staff," Danielle said. "I don't want to work for you, Dani." "I'm a terrific boss, and I'll brutally sabotage the career of any underling who says different.

As well as you can, live the life you want to live and make the work you want to make. After you're gone it'll all be sorted out or not. You won't be around to worry about it. Focus on the parts you're around for.

That's why you have a partner," Vann said. "So you can vent at me. Afterward. Now, come on. Let's get back to work." "Where to now?" "I want to get a better look at that hotel room," Vann said, and sucked on her cigarette. "Trinh hustled us through it pretty quickly. I'm ready for a slow dance.

I want to make one thing clear. I do not like, nor will I ever like, any one of you. Why? Because I know that despite the fine work of myself and my staff, you will inevitably make all of us look bad. It pains me.

Muscles aching to work, minds aching to create - this is man.

George's voice became deeper. He repeated his words rhythmically as though he had said them many times before. 'Guys like us, that work on ranches, are the loneliest guys in the world. They got no family. They don't belong no place. They come to a ranch an' work up a stake, and the first thing you know they're poundin' their tail on some other ranch. They ain't got nothing to look ahead to.

You're buying years of work, toil in the sun; you're buying a sorrow that can't talk.

It occurs to me that just as the Carthaginians hired mercenaries to do their fighting for them, we Americans being in mercenaries to do our hard and humble work. I hope we may not be overwhelmed one day by peoples not too proud or too lazy or too soft to bend to the earth and pick up the things we eat.

Why don't you go on west to California? There's work there, and it never gets cold. Why, you can reach out anywhere and pick an orange. Why, there's always some kind of crop to work in. Why don't you go there?

I've always been amused by the contention that brain work is harder than manual labor. I've never known a man to leave a desk for a muck-stick if he could avoid it.

The last clear definite function of men—muscles aching to work, minds aching to create beyond the single need—this is man.

You're buying years of work, toil in the sun; you're buying a sorrow that can't talk. But watch it, mister. There's a premium goes with this pile of junk and the bay horses - so beautiful - a packet of bitterness to grow in your house and to flower, some day. We could have saved you, but you cut us down, and soon you will be cut down and there'll be none of us to save you.

Fella had a team of horses, had to use'em to plow an' cultivate an' mow, wouldn't think a turnin' 'em out to starve when they wasn't workin'. Them's horses - we're men.

That's what makes it ours-being born on it, working on it, dying on it. That makes ownership, not a paper with numbers on it.

I don't know where being a servant came into disrepute. It is the refuge of a philosopher, the food of the lazy, and, properly carried out, it is a position of power, even of love.

Mostly I'm too damn busy to know how I feel.

Rosasharn, you're jest one person, an' they's a lot of other folks. You git to your proper place. I knowed people built theirself up with sin till they figgered they was big mean shucks in the sight a the Lord. But, Ma—— No. Jes' shut up an' git to work. You ain't big enough or mean enough to worry God much. An' I'm gonna give you the back a my han' if you don' stop this pickin' at yourself.

Muscles aching to work, minds aching to create beyond the single need-this is man.

Sure, cried the tenant men, but it's our land. We measured it and broke it up. We were born on it, and we got killed on it, died on it. Even if it's no good, it's still ours. That's what makes it ours-being born on it, working it, dying on it.

This nickel, unlike most money, has actually done a job of work, has been physically responsible for a reaction.

I think perhaps I am one of those lucky mortals whose work and whose life are the same thing.

Guys like us, that work on ranches, are the loneliest guys in the world. They got no family. They don't belong no place. They

just as the Carthaginians hired mercenaries to do their fighting for them, we Americans bring in mercenaries to do our hard and humble work. I hope we may not be overwhelmed one day by peoples not too proud or too lazy or too soft to bend to the earth and pick up the things we eat.