Work (n.) when it is a degradation is not life, even though it occupies every moment of a life.
Work (n.) could become a misfortune for a family in the cotton famine, since short-time wages fell below what relief would have paid them for doing nothing.
Work (n.) that is really free — composing, say — is not fun or amusement, as Fourier naively hoped, but the most damned seriousness and the most intense exertion.
Work (n.) looked at as labour is the worker treating the hide he tans as the object of his creative activity, and not as capital, for he does not tan it for the capitalist.
Work (n.) is, for the wage-labourer, not part of his life but a sacrifice of it: he works in order to live, and life begins where work ceases — at the table, in the tavern, in bed.