All honors converged in this honor. A certain decency and finesse of language. A respect for the home… A respect for the elderly, for parents, for relatives. An admirable respect for children. And naturally, respect for women. And above all, fine taste and respect for respect itself. Respect for the tool, and for one’s hands, the supreme tool. “I’m losing my work hands,” said the old-timers. And that was the beginning of the end. The idea that one might have damaged one’s tools on purpose wouldn’t occur to them as being sacrilegious; it wouldn’t even have been thought of as monstrous. No, it would rather have seemed to them the most ridiculous of things to even suppose. It would have been like talking about cutting off one’s hand. The tool was simply an extension of the hand, or a tougher one (like having steel nails), or one with some other modification. A hand made on purpose for this or that. For them, a worker damaging a tool would have been like a soldier breaking his trigger finger in the war. We earned nothing, we lived on nothing, we were happy.

Charles Péguy (1873-1914)
Writer, poet

“Days, weeks, months, years passed in succession. Every morning I got up early; I loved my sleep at that age, but each evening I would tell Mother to wake me up early the next morning, at exactly six o’clock, because I had work to do; Mother never faltered. She herself rose each morning at four a.m., winter or summer, to work on reupholstering the chairs. Thus she woke me up every day at six, even though it pained her to do it because I looked so peaceful in my sleep; it pained her to wake me up, because I was heavy, and loved to sleep, and it was early. Even so, I would suddenly think of school, and up, with a single bound, I’d throw myself on my knees, bare feet on the cold tiles… I’d get down to work and work with a will, seriously, precisely, as much in my own way as Mother in hers; I’d do my homework and learn my lessons… I poured all my willpower into my lesson until it I knew it perfectly by heart, without the shadow of a hesitation, without a moment’s thought, like I knew my prayers; Mother would encourage me and help me, leading me, and all my life I kept the memory of this dear work done in a home peopled by hard workers, the memory of this good work begun each morning anew.”

Charles Péguy (1873-1914)
Writer, poet