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

Man must be doing something, or fancy that he is doing something, for in him throbs the creative impulse; the mere basker in the sunshine is not a natural, but an abnormal man.

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

Man is so made that he can only find relaxation from one kind of labor by taking up another.

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

You can be up to your boobies in white satin, with gardenias in your hair and no sugar cane for miles, but you can still be working on a plantation.

The three little sentences that will get you through life. Number 1: Cover for me. Number 2: Oh, good idea, Boss! Number 3: It was like that when I got here.

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.

All paid jobs absorb and degrade the mind.

Man is a tool-using animal. Nowhere do you find him without tools; without tools he is nothing, with tools he is all.

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.

Eight hours for work, eight hours for sleep, eight hours for what we will.