The most fitting occupation for a civilized man is to do nothing.

If a man is called to be a streetsweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all heaven and earth will pause to say, here lived a great streetsweeper that did his job well.

Labor disgraces no man; unfortunately, you occasionally find men who disgrace labor.

Sick, irritated, and the prey to a thousand discomforts, I go on with my labor like a true workingman, who, with sleeves rolled up, in the sweat of his brow, beats away at his anvil, not caring whether it rains or blows, hails or thunders.

Far and away the best prize that life offers is the chance to work hard at work worth doing.

I began to realize how simple life could be if one had a regular routine to follow with fixed hours, a fixed salary, and very little original thinking to do.

Every man is worth just so much as the things he busies himself with.

Hang work! I wish that all the year were holiday; I am sure that Indolence—indefeasible Indolence—is the true state of man.

I like work; it fascinates me. I can sit and look at it for hours.

He that would eat the nut must crack the shell.

To do nothing at all is the most difficult thing in the world, the most difficult and the most intellectual.

Plough deep while sluggards sleep.

The workers are the saviors of society, the redeemers of the race.