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

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

“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.

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.

Toil is man’s allotment; toil of brain, or toil of hands, or a grief that’s more than either, the grief and sin of idleness.

God sells us all things at the price of labor.

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

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