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#idleness

Read through the most famous quotes by topic #idleness




Yet it is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top. ↗


— Virginia Woolf


#dreams #idleness #our #our dreams #sometimes

Work is the best of narcotics, providing the patient be strong enough to take it. I dread idleness as if it were Hell. ↗


— Beatrice Webb


#best #dread #enough #hell #i

Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness. ↗


— William Wordsworth


#day #golf #idleness #round #spent

Idleness is an appendix to nobility. ↗


— Robert Burton


#idleness #nobility

Idleness is the parent of psychology. ↗


— Friedrich Nietzsche


#parent #psychology

Do you smoke? Well, yes, I must admit I smoke. I am glad to hear it. A man should always have an occupation of some kind. There are far too many idle men in London as it is. ↗


— Oscar Wilde


#smoking #men

Idleness does drive me crazy, but I'd rather read or write than do anything just to work. A kind of respect has been instilled in me for acting: I love it too much to ever have a bad relationship with it. ↗


— Karen Allen


#anything #bad #been #crazy #does

The art of living is the art of bringing dreams and reality together. ↗


— Tom Hodgkinson


#idleness #art

We cannot afford idleness, waste or inefficiency. ↗


— Eamon de Valera


#cannot #idleness #inefficiency #waste #we cannot

But most of all, as summer slanted to an end, he was learning to love idleness, idleness no longer as stretches of freedom reclaimed by stealth here and there from involuntary labour, surreptitious thefts to be enjoyed sitting on his heels before a flowerbed with the fork dangling from his fingers, but as a yielding up of himself to time, to a time flowing slowly like oil from horizon to horizon over the face of the world, washing over his body, circulating in his armpits and his groin, stirring his eyelids. He was neither pleased nor displeased when there was work to do; it was all the same. He could lie all afternoon with his eyes open, staring at the corrugations in the roof-iron and the tracings of rust; his mind would not wander, he would see nothing but the iron, the lines would not transform themselves into pattern or fantasy; he was himself, lying in his own house, the rust was merely rust, all that was moving was time, bearing him onward in its flow. ↗


— J.M. Coetzee


#time #freedom






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