Love Your Job
定义你的不是你的工作，而是你的工作方式。
你往往不能控制你的处境，但你可以选择如何去适应。
不再关注钱。
得到报酬只是你工作的一小部分，
工作完成的意义远远超过了一张薪水支票。
花些时间，好好想想你的工作。
你的工作有意义吗？你看到成果了吗？
然后问问自己：“我的存在使这项工作有什么不同？”
尽量选择那些你肯花时间去做的工作，
才能更好地掌控你的工作。
致加西亚的一封信
A Message to Garcia
阿尔伯特·哈伯德 / Elbert Hubbard
In all this Cuban business there is one man stands out on the horizon of my memory like Mars at perihelion.
When war broke out between Spain and the United States， it was very necessary to communicate quickly with the leader of the insurgents. Garcia was somewhere in the mountain fastnesses of Cuba—no one knew where. No mail or telegraph message could reach him. The President must secure his cooperation， and quickly. What to do！
Some said to the President， “There’s a fellow by the name of Rowan who will find Garcia for you， if anybody can.”
Rowan was sent for and given a letter to be delivered to Garcia. How the “fellow by the name of Rowan” took the letter， sealed it up in an oilskin pouch， strapped it over his heart， in four days landed by night off the coast of Cuba from an open boat， disappeared into the jungle， and in three weeks came out on the other side of the Island， having traversed a hostile country on foot and delivered his letter to Garcia—are things I have no special desire now to tell in detail. The point that I wish to make is this： McKinley gave Rowan a letter to be delivered to Garcia； Rowan took the letter and did not ask， “Where is he at？”
By the Eternal！ There is a man whose form should be cast in deathless bronze and the statue placed in every college of the land. It is not book-learning young men need， nor instruction about this and that， but a stiffening of the vertebrae which will cause them to be loyal to a trust， to act promptly， concentrate their energies： do the thing—“Carry a message to Garcia.”
General Garcia is dead now， but there are other Garcia. No man who has endeavored to carry out an enterprise where many hands were needed， but has been well-nigh appalled at times by the imbecility of the average man—the inability or unwillingness to concentrate on a thing and do it.
Slipshod assistance， foolish inattention， dowdy indifference， and half-hearted work seem the rule； and no man succeeds， unless by hook or crook or threat he forces or bribes other men to assist him； or mayhap， God in His goodness performs a miracle， and sends him an Angel of Light for an assistant.
You， reader， put this matter to a test： You are sitting now in your office—six clerks are within call. Summon any one and make this request： “Please look in the encyclopedia and make a brief memorandum for me concerning the life of Correggio.” Will the clerk quietly say， “Yes， sir，” and go do the task？
On your life he will not. He will look at you out of a fishy eye and ask one or more of the following questions： Who was he？ Which encyclopedia？ Where is the encyclopedia？ Was I hired for that？ Don’t you mean Bismarck？ What’s the matter with Charlie doing it？ Is he dead？ Is there any hurry？ Shan’t I bring you the book and let you look it up yourself？ What do you want to know for？
And I will lay you ten to one that after you have answered the questions， and explained how to find the information， and why you want it， the clerk will go off and get one of the other clerks to help him try to find Garcia—and then come back and tell you there is no such man. Of course I may lose my bet， but according to the Law of Average， I will not.
Now， if you are wise， you will not bother to explain to your “assistant” that Correggio is indexed under the C’s， not in the K’s， but you will smile very sweetly and say， “Never mind，” and go look it up yourself. And this incapacity for independent action， this moral stupidity， this infirmity of the will， this unwillingness to cheerfully catch hold and lift—these are the things that put pure Socialism so far into the future.
If men will not act for themselves， what will they do when the benefit of their effort is for all？
A first mate with knotted club seems necessary； and the dread of getting “the bounce” Saturday night holds many a worker to his place. Advertise for a stenographer， and nine out of ten who apply can neither spell nor punctuate—and do not think it necessary to.
Can such a one write a letter to Garcia？
“You see that bookkeeper，” said the foreman to me in a large factory.
“Yes. What about him？”
“Well， he’s a fine accountant， but if I’d send him up town on an errand， he might accomplish the errand all right， and on the other hand， might stop at four saloons on the way， and when he got to Main Street would forget what he had been sent for.”
Can such a man be entrusted to carry a message to Garcia？
We have recently been hearing much maudlin sympathy expressed for the “downtrodden denizens of the sweat-shop” and the “homeless wanderer searching for honest employment，” and with it all often go many hard words for the men in power.
Nothing is said about the employer who grows old before his time in a vain attempt to get frowsy never-do-wells to do intelligent work； and his long， patient striving alter “help” that does nothing but loaf when his back is turned.
In every， store and factory there is a constant weeding-out process going on. The employer is constantly sending away “help” that have shown their incapacity to further the interests of the business， and others are being taken on. No matter how good times are， this sorting continues： only， if times are hard and work is scarce， the sorting is done finer—but out and forever out the incompetent and unworthy go. It is the survival of the fittest. Self-interest prompts every employer to keep the best—those who can carry a message to Garcia.
