A few days ago in a class revolving around the (troubled) economics of labor, the lecturer stopped and asked us all, "What age would you like to retire at?"

She pointed at various people. 65. 65. 68. 60. 75. Never (!?). 65. 65. At that point I could no longer contain myself, so I raised my hand, redirected her attention to me, and said, "35," a conservative estimate.

The whole class laughed at me, as did the lecturer.

I sat there as she moved on to other students (65 ... 63 ... 60 ... 68) and thought about that. They were laughing at me because I want to work less than them, because I want to pursue my hobbies and spend my time in ways not mandated by misguided ideas about what I "need." I think that is profoundly sad. Will they still be laughing when, assuming all goes to plan, they work 40 hours a week and I am retired and pursuing my hobbies?

At that point I formulated a belief, came to a sort of realization: work is the cult of modern society. So in short, this is an essay full of extreme insight from Bertrand Russell. Note: not in defense of idleness -- in praise of it. Quite so.