#work

You still could go to some industry or some university or the government and if you could persuade them you had something on the ball—why, then, they might put up the cash after cutting themselves in on just about all of the profits. And, naturally, they'd run the show because it was their money and all you had done was the sweating and the bleeding. ↗

— Clifford D. Simak

#corporate-greed #finance #government-financing #grants #rights

When the maker's (or fixer's) activity is immediately situated within a community of use, it can be enlivened by this kind of direct perception. Then the social character of his work isn't separate from its internal or "engineering" standards; the work is improved through relationships with others. It may even be the case that what those standards are, what perfection consists of, is something that comes to light only through these iterated exchanges with others who use the product, as well as other craftsmen in the same trade. Through work that had this social character, some shared conception of the good is lit up, and becomes concrete. ↗

— Matthew B Crawford

#vocation #work #relationship

Begging would have been the best option if God had given talents to only a selected few. Fortunately, He gave us all our compactible gifts respectively, so it is an offence to be a chronic beggar. ↗

— Israelmore Ayivor

#beggars #begging #few #gifts #talents

One of my favorite dialogue pieces from Black Creek Burning: “It was a polite, white lie,” Brie whispered. “I’ll have to remember you think that way,” Nathan said. ↗

— R.T. Wolfe

#black-creek-burning #gardening #murder #romantic-suspense #sweet

Rose, I'm an addict with no work ethic who is likely going to go insane. I'm not like you. I'm not a super-hero." "Not yet," I said. ↗

— Richelle Mead

#rose-hathaway #work

One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one’s work is terribly important. ↗

— Bertrand Russell

#importance #nervous-breakdowns #neurosis #perspective #self-perception

He opened his mouth. The words were there. He was about to say them when a jolt of terror went through him, the terror of someone who, wandering in a mist, pauses only to realise that they have stopped inches from the edge of a gaping abyss. The way she was looking at him - she could read what was in his eyes, he realised. It must have been written plainly there, like words on the page of a book. There had been no time, no chance, to hide it. “Will,” she whispered. “Say something, Will.” But there was nothing to say. There was only emptiness, as there had been before her. As there would always be. 'I have lost everything', Will thought. 'Everything. ↗

— Cassandra Clare

#clockwork-angel #despair #love #tessa-gray #will-herondale

A fuel pump is a fountain drink machine for cars. And people who want to save the environment and get drunk and run to work.
 ↗

— Jarod Kintz

#drunk #environment #fuel #gas #gasoline

Go on with your work as usual, for work is a blessed solace. ↗

— Louisa May Alcott

#louisa-may-alcott #work #louisa-may-alcott

I don't really care. I shouldn't have to care. I shouldn't have to work this hard. I realize now that dying is easy. Living is hard. ↗

— Gayle Forman

#hard-work