In order that people may be happy in their work, these three things are needed: they must be fit for it; they must not do too much of it; and they must have a sense of success in it.

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

It is shameful and inhuman to treat men like chattels to make money by, or to regard them merely as so much muscle or physical power.

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.

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

“Work” does not exist in a nonliterate world. The primitive hunter or fisherman did no work, any more than does the poet, painter, or thinker of today. Where the whole man is involved there is no work.

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

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

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

God sells us all things at the price of labor.

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

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.