Laboring Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
when-you-are-laboring-for-others-let-it-be-with-the-same-zeal-as-if-it-were-for-yourself
laboring-exhausted-alghashiyah-3
o-man-you-are-laboring-towards-your-lord-you-will-meet-him-alinshiqaq-6
i-am-not-enemy-negro-we-want-him-here-among-us-he-is-only-laboring-class-we-have
labor-leaders-dont-do-much-laboring-after-they-are-able-to-lead-will-rogers
laboring-men-can-perform-for-themselves-office-becoming-their-own-employers-leland-stanford
god-loves-idle-rainbow-no-less-than-laboring-seas-ralph-hodgson
you-look-at-anything-ive-been-part-its-when-laboring-fatigue-when-some-those-things-happen-thats-what-shows-what-youre-going-to-be
the-value-thing-is-amount-laboring-work-that-its-possession-will-save-possessor-henry-george
sacrifice-self-to-bless-one-another-even-as-god-has-blessed-you-forget-self-in-laboring-for-mankind-mary-baker-eddy
extremely-foolish-advice-is-likely-to-be-uttered-by-those-who-are-looking-at-the-laboring-vessel-from-the-land
the-doctor-will-persist-in-laboring-under-delusion-that-patients-want-common-sense-instead-magic-rae-foley
for-about-year-i-just-didnt-know-what-to-do-i-did-laboring-jobs-working-in-docks-construction-sites-daniel-daylewis
the-laboring-man-artificer-knows-what-every-hour-his-time-is-worth-parts-not-with-it-but-for-full-value-edward-hyde
when-stories-come-easily-writing-process-doesnt-feel-laboring-thats-usually-good-sign-for-me-david-e-kelley
let-us-hope-that-a-kind-providence-will-put-a-speedy-end-to-the-acts-of-god-under-which-we-have-been-laboring
of-all-contrivances-for-cheating-laboring-classes-mankind-none-has-been-more-effective-than-that-which-deludes-them-with-paper-money-daniel-webster
let-us-hope-that-kind-providence-will-put-speedy-end-to-acts-god-under-which-we-have-been-laboring-peter-de-vries
nor-did-we-eat-anyones-food-without-paying-for-it-on-contrary-we-worked-night-day-laboring-toiling-that-we-would-not-be-burden-to-any-you-2-thessalonians-38
he-mocks-the-people-who-proposes-that-the-government-shall-protect-the-rich-and-that-they-in-turn-will-care-for-the-laboring-poor
the-golf-links-lie-so-near-the-mill-that-almost-every-day-the-laboring-children-can-look-out-and-watch-the-men-at-play
i-am-a-poor-man-and-of-little-worth-who-is-laboring-in-that-art-that-god-has-given-me-in-order-to-extend-my-life-as-long-as-possible
nature-always-wears-colors-spirit-to-man-laboring-under-calamity-heat-his-own-fire-hath-sadness-in-it-ralph-waldo-emerson
most-people-arent-anywhere-near-to-realizing-their-creative-potential-in-part-because-theyre-laboring-in-environments-that-impede-intrinsic-motivation-teresa-amabile
for-years-i-have-endeavored-to-calm-impetuous-tide-laboring-to-make-my-feelings-take-orderly-course-it-was-striving-against-stream-mary-wollstonecraft
in-his-voice-resonated-timbre-man-who-thinks-he-has-convinced-himself-idea-but-masks-his-own-doubt-by-laboring-to-persuade-others-katherine-howe
i-had-no-interest-at-all-in-opera-singing-i-saw-my-fellow-students-struggling-with-their-scores-laboring-to-memorize-operatic-roles-i-thought-thats-not-for-me
quorum-group-leaders-should-provide-leading-voice-laboring-oar-in-every-ward-branch-council-regarding-retention-converts-d-todd-christofferson
the-way-source-strains-toward-light-toward-air-its-laboring-work-its-effort-its-black-passageways-like-despair-thats-way-poet-looks-for-words-anna-kamienska
motherhood-is-hallowed-place-because-children-arent-commonplace-colaboring-over-sculpting-souls-is-sacred-vocation-humbling-privilege-never-ann-voskamp
when-i-was-in-high-school-we-were-all-laboring-under-illusion-maybe-it-was-reality-that-everyone-in-our-school-was-virgin-james-woods
in-alert-bright-state-society-people-learn-co-operation-by-themselves-but-in-older-quieter-conditions-laboring-enterprise-such-bill-as-i-propose-will-point-out-way-to-mutual-exer
are-we-truly-obeying-command-to-love-our-neighbor-as-ourselves-if-were-storing-up-money-for-potential-future-needs-when-our-neighbor-is-laboring-today-under-actual-present-needs-
i-find-it-strange-that-practicing-law-in-comfortable-wellheated-office-is-considered-too-demanding-occupation-for-women-yet-laboring-from-dawns-first-light-in-crowded-drafty-illl
whatever-thing-man-sets-his-heart-onis-his-god-if-his-god-doesnt-also-happen-to-be-true-living-god-israel-that-man-is-laboring-in-idolatry-spencer-w-kimball
this-is-life-learning-to-love-through-loss-seeking-warm-pockets-in-bitter-cold-finding-worth-smile-on-cloudy-day-carrying-weight-world-on-weary-shouldersmistakes-sins-injusticesa
Dickens has not seen it all. The wretched of the earth do not decide to become extinct, they resolve, on the contrary, to multiply: life is their only weapon against life, life is all that they have. This is why the dispossessed and starving will never be convinced (though some may be coerced) by the population-control programs of the civilized. I have watched the dispossessed and starving laboring in the fields which others own, with their transistor radios at their ear, all day long: so they learn, for example, along with equally weighty matters, that the pope, one of the heads of the civilized world, forbids to the civilized that abortion which is being, literally, forced on them, the wretched. The civilized have created the wretched, quite coldly and deliberately, and do not intend to change the status quo; are responsible for their slaughter and enslavement; rain down bombs on defenseless children whenever and wherever they decide that their 'vital interests' are menaced, and think nothing of torturing a man to death: these people are not to be taken seriously when they speak of the 'sanctity' of human life, or the 'conscience' of the civilized world. There is a 'sanctity' involved with bringing a child into this world: it is better than bombing one out of it. Dreadful indeed it is to see a starving child, but the answer to that is not to prevent the child's arrival but to restructure the world so that the child can live in it: so that the 'vital interest' of the world becomes nothing less than the life of the child. However-I could not have said any of this then, nor is so absurd a notion about to engulf the world now. But we were all starving children, after all, and none of our fathers, even at their most embittered and enraged, had ever suggested that we 'die out.' It was not we who were supposed to die out: this was, of all notions, the most forbidden, and we learned this from the cradle. Every trial, every beating, every drop of blood, every tear, were meant to be used by us for a day that was coming-for a day that was certainly coming, absolutely certainly, certainly coming: not for us, perhaps, but for our children. The children of the despised and rejected are menaced from the moment they stir in the womb, and are therefore sacred in a way that the children of the saved are not. And the children know it, which is how they manage to raise their children, and why they will not be persuaded-by their children's murderers, after all-to cease having children.

James Baldwin
dickens-has-not-seen-it-all-the-wretched-earth-do-not-decide-to-become-extinct-they-resolve-on-contrary-to-multiply-life-is-their-only-weapon-against-life-life-is-all-that-they-h
Many people in this room have an Etsy store where they create unique, unreplicable artifacts or useful items to be sold on a small scale, in a common marketplace where their friends meet and barter. I and many of my friends own more than one spinning wheel. We grow our food again. We make pickles and jams on private, individual scales, when many of our mothers forgot those skills if they ever knew them. We come to conventions, we create small communities of support and distributed skills-when one of us needs help, our village steps in. It's only that our village is no longer physical, but connected by DSL instead of roads. But look at how we organize our tribes-bloggers preside over large estates, kings and queens whose spouses' virtues are oft-lauded but whose faces are rarely seen. They have moderators to protect them, to be their knights, a nobility of active commenters and big name fans, a peasantry of regular readers, and vandals starting the occasional flame war just to watch the fields burn. Other villages are more commune-like, sharing out resources on forums or aggregate sites, providing wise women to be consulted, rabbis or priests to explain the world, makers and smiths to fashion magical objects. Groups of performers, acrobats and actors and singers of songs are traveling the roads once more, entertaining for a brief evening in a living room or a wheatfield, known by word of mouth and secret signal. Separate from official government, we create our own hierarchies, laws, and mores, as well as our own folklore and secret history. Even my own guilt about having failed as an academic is quite the crisis of filial piety-you see, my mother is a professor. I have not carried on the family trade. We dwell within a system so large and widespread, so disorganized and unconcerned for anyone but its most privileged and luxurious members, that our powerlessness, when we can summon up the courage to actually face it, is staggering. So we do not face it. We tell ourselves we are Achilles when we have much more in common with the cathedral-worker, laboring anonymously so that the next generation can see some incremental progress. We lack, of course, a Great Work to point to and say: my grandmother made that window; I worked upon the door. Though, I would submit that perhaps the Internet, as an object, as an aggregate entity, is the cathedral we build word by word and image by image, window by window and portal by portal, to stand taller for our children, if only by a little, than it does for us. For most of us are Lancelots, not Galahads. We may see the Grail of a good Classical life, but never touch it. That is for our sons, or their daughters, or further off. And if our villages are online, the real world becomes that dark wood on the edge of civilization, a place of danger and experience, of magic and blood, a place to make one's name or find death by bear. And here, there be monsters.

Catherynne M. Valente
many-people-in-this-room-have-etsy-store-where-they-create-unique-unreplicable-artifacts-useful-items-to-be-sold-on-small-scale-in-common-marketplace-where-their-friends-meet-bar
Despite an icy northeast wind huffing across the bay I sneak out after dark, after my mother falls asleep clutching her leather Bible, and I hike up the rutted road to the frosted meadow to stand in mist, my shoes in muck, and toss my echo against the moss-covered fieldstone corners of the burned-out church where Sunday nights in summer for years Father Thomas, that mad handsome priest, would gather us girls in the basement to dye the rose cotton linen cut-outs that the deacon's daughter, a thin beauty with short white hair and long trim nails, would stitch by hand each folded edge then steam-iron flat so full of starch, stiffening fabric petals, which we silly Sunday school girls curled with quick sharp pulls of a scissor blade, forming clusters of curved petals the younger children assembled with Krazy glue and fuzzy green wire, sometimes adding tissue paper leaves, all of us gladly laboring like factory workers rather than have to color with crayon stubs the robe of Christ again, Christ with his empty hands inviting us to dine, Christ with a shepherd's staff signaling to another flock of puffy lambs, or naked Christ with a drooping head crowned with blackened thorns, and Lord how we laughed later when we went door to door in groups, visiting the old parishioners, the sick and bittersweet, all the near dead, and we dropped our bikes on the perfect lawns of dull neighbors, agnostics we suspected, hawking our handmade linen roses for a donation, bragging how each petal was hand-cut from a pattern drawn by Father Thomas himself, that mad handsome priest, who personally told the Monsignor to go fornicate himself, saying he was a disgruntled altar boy calling home from a phone booth outside a pub in North Dublin, while I sat half-dressed, sniffing incense, giddy and drunk with sacrament wine stains on my panties, whispering my oath of unholy love while wiggling uncomfortably on the mad priest's lap, but God he was beautiful with a fine chiseled chin and perfect teeth and a smile that would melt the Madonna, and God he was kind with a slow gentle touch, never harsh or too quick, and Christ how that crafty devil could draw, imitate a rose petal in perfect outline, his sharp pencil slanted just so, the tip barely touching so that he could sketch and drink, and cough without jerking, without ruining the work, or tearing the tissue paper, thin as a membrane, which like a clean skin arrived fresh each Saturday delivered by the dry cleaners, tucked into the crisp black vestment, wrapped around shirt cardboard, pinned to protect the high collar.

Bob Thurber
despite-icy-northeast-wind-huffing-across-bay-i-sneak-out-after-dark-after-my-mother-falls-asleep-clutching-her-leather-bible-i-hike-up-rutted-road-to-frosted-meadow-to-stand-in-
?Earn cash when you save a quote by clicking
EARNED Load...
LEVEL : Load...