Love is life’s end, but never ending. Love is life’s wealth, never spent, but ever spending. Love’s life’s reward, rewarded in rewarding.
Lost – yesterday, somewhere between sunrise and sunset, two golden hours, each set with sixty diamond minutes. No reward is offered, for they are gone forever.
Men do not value a good deed unless it brings a reward.
Every day confirms my opinion on the superiority of a vicious life – and if Virtue is not its own reward I don’t know any other stipend annexed to it.
Happiness is a virtue, not its reward.
Sleep is a reward for some, a punishment for others. For all, it is a sanction.
Just to stir things up seemed a great reward in itself.
It’s an incredible con job when you think about it, to believe something now in exchange for something after death. Even corporations with their reward systems don’t try to make it posthumous.
To work without attachment is to work without the expectation of reward or fear of any punishment in this world or the next. Work so done is a means to the end, and God is the end.
I’ve always associated the moment of writing with a moment of lift, of joy, of unexpected reward.