Quotes About Work

She presents food and drink to customers there, and says to me, "I mount the autobus for an hour to work all day doing things I hate. You want to know why? It is for you, Alexi-stop-spleening-me! One day you will do things for me that you hate. That is what it means to be a family.

while the whole operation

Añadí que la vida que había llevado desde entonces era lo bastante trabajosa para matar a un ser diez veces más fuerte que yo; que mi salud se había quebrantado mucho con aquella continua y miserable faena de divertir a la gentuza a todas las horas del día

it's not how much you work, but how working so much makes you feel that counts. And how I felt was iserable.

Comprendí que el trabajo del poeta no estaba en la poesía; estaba en la invención de razones para que la poesía fuera admirable; naturalmente, ese ulterior trabajo modificaba la obra para él, pero no para otro.

Voiko se kuolla? Kaikella, mikä kuolee, on ollut jonkinlainen päämäärä, jonkinlainen työ, joka on raastanut sen rikki-

Quain solía argumentar que los lectores eran una especie ya extinta. 'No hay europeo' (razonaba) 'que no sea un escritor, en potencia o en acto.' Examen de la obra de Herbert Quain

Comprendí que el trabajo del poeta no estaba en la poesía; estaba en la invención de razones para que la poesía fuera admirable; naturalmente, ese ulterior trabajo modificaba la obra para él, pero no para otros.

I understood that the work of the poet was not in poetry; it was in the invention of reasons for poetry to be admirable; Naturally, this further work modified the work for him, but not for another.

Es fama entre los etíopes que los monos deliberadamente no hablan para que no los obliguen a trabajar

Separated from the sphere of divine worship, of the cult of the divine, and from the power it radiates, leisure is as impossible as the celebration of a feast. Cut off from the worship of the divine, leisure becomes laziness and work inhuman.

Human activity has two basic forms: doing ( agere ) and making ( facere ). Artifacts, technical and artistic, are the works of making. We ourselves are the works of doing.

No, the contrary of acedia is not the spirit of work in the sense of the work of every day, of earning one's living; it is man's happy and cheerful affirmation of his own being, his acquiescence in the world and in God—which is to say love. Love that certainly brings a particular freshness and readiness to work along with it, but that no one with the least experience could conceivably confuse with the tense activity of the fanatical "worker".

To be fettered to work means to be bound to this vast utilitarian process in which our needs are satisfied, and, what is more, tied to such an extent that the life of the working man is wholly consumed in it.

Properly speaking, the liberal arts receive an honorarium, while servile work receives a wage.

There is an entry in Baudelaire's Journal Intime that is fearful in the precision of its cynicism: "One must work, if not from taste then at least from despair. For, to reduce everything to a single truth: work is less boring than pleasure.

The liberal arts, then, include all forms of human activity which are an end in themselves; the servile arts are those which have an end beyond themselves, and more precisely an end which consists in a utilitarian result attainable in practice, a practicable result.

There is no doubt of one thing: the world of the "worker" is taking shape with dynamic force—with such a velocity that, rightly or wrongly, one is tempted to speak of demonic force in history.

So much is learned by seeing how well or how poorly someone accomplishes a job he dislikes.

It is a virtue, I came to believe long ago, not to make a meal out of one's emotional life. There's always enough work to do, not to mention that there's world enough outside.

I think the person who takes a job in order to live - that is to say, for the money [not for purpose or passion]- has turned himself into a slave.

I'm sorry, Mr. Whiteleaf. I'm not going to let a monster eat me for minimum wage.

The day counts on labor; the night counts on thinking. Clamor is useful for the first; silence for the second.

So what do you think it's all about? Life, I mean." [...] "To work hard", she said, "and to love someone". Then she paused. "And to have some fun", she added. "And if you're lucky, you keep your health...and somebody loves you back".