The poet Transtromer says work is a glove that lets man touch the universe. Yet shod or shoeless, shivering or encased in cashmere,
the simple dignity of work eludes most of us. A deer in the forest has places to lie down and listen to the wind in the branches. The ordinary worker counts himself lucky to glimpse the sky on the weekend while raking leaves and wondering if his job will last until the Spring. When did work become a desert island while the seas slowly rise around us?

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