“All other work but this is worthless; it is slaves' work — mere toiling to live, that we may live to toil.”
Signs of Change (1888), Useful Work versus Useless Toil
Context: Worthy work carries with it the hope of pleasure in rest, the hope of the pleasure in our using what it makes, and the hope of pleasure in our daily creative skill.
All other work but this is worthless; it is slaves' work — mere toiling to live, that we may live to toil.
Help us to complete the source, original and additional information
William Morris 119
author, designer, and craftsman 1834–1896Related quotes

Tighe Hopkins in The Women Napoleon Loved
About

“No fine work can be done without concentration and self-sacrifice and toil and doubt.”
Books Within Books (1914)
And Even Now http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/etext99/evnow10.txt (1920)

A Glance Behind the Curtain (1843)

“You're buying years of work, toil in the sun; you're buying a sorrow that can't talk.”
Source: The Grapes of Wrath

Source: Ulysses (1842), l. 46-53
Context: Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me —
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.
Death closes all; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with gods.

“To those who live and toil and lowly die,
Who past beyond and leave no lasting trace”
Dedication
Casuals of the Sea (1916)
Context: To those who live and toil and lowly die,
Who past beyond and leave no lasting trace,
To those from whom our queen Prosperity
Has turned away her fair and fickle face;
To those frail craft upon the restless Sea
Of Human Life, who strike the rocks uncharted,
Who loom, sad phantoms, near us, drearily,
Storm-driven, rudderless, with timbers started;
To those poor Casuals of the way-worn earth,
The feckless wastage of our cunning schemes,
This book is dedicate, their hidden worth
And beauty I have seen in vagrant dreams!
The things we touch, the things we dimly see,
The stiff strange tapestries of human thought,
The silken curtains of our fantasy
Are with their sombre histories o'erwrought.
And yet we know them not, our skill is vain to find
The mute soul's agony, the visions of the blind.

Source: William John Rose (1944). The Rise of Polish Democracy, p. 5