Okay, I get it: work, in an of itself is virtuous. The products of work can be damned, the work is the important stuff. Further, anything other than work is bad, possibly evil. If, somehow, some way, there is no work to be done, apparently an awful state of being, then, the next best thing is to enjoy “simple”, “wholesome” pleasures.
And yet, I keep reading.
This was written on the train coming up to Boston, before I fell on my Palm Pilot.