Nothing is worth getting done that isn't worth doing.

From Alfred’s journal

A man spent the whole morning under the maple assembling a bookshelf, and he hated every minute of it. I watched from the low branch. He read the paper, swore at a screw, read the paper again, and when it stood up he looked at it the way you look at a chore you have survived. Then he went inside and did not come back out. For years I thought the finished thing was the point and the misery was just the toll you paid at the gate; I built two nests that way myself, in a hurry, in bad weather, and I did not like sitting in either of them. Nothing is worth getting done that isn't worth doing. The shelf is still out there, by the way, and it has started to warp.