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

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

Plough deep while sluggards sleep.

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

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

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.

The best augury of a man’s success in his profession is that he thinks it the finest in the world.

I am a friend of the workingman, and I would rather be his friend than be one.

One of the saddest things is that the only thing that a man can do for eight hours a day, day after day, is work. You can’t eat eight hours a day, nor drink for eight hours a day, nor make love for eight hours.

A man is not idle, because he is absorbed in thought. There is visible labor and there is an invisible labor.

He that would eat the nut must crack the shell.

It is difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends upon his not understanding it.

A human being must have occupation, if he or she is not to become a nuisance to the world.