Words of Truth, Mr. Hugo

So I was reading in Les Miserables last night when I came across this little piece of wisdom that I thought was particularly fitting for my situation:

. . . nothing is more dangerous than discontinued labor; it is a habit lost. A habit easy to abandon, difficult to resume.

A certain amount of reverie is good, like a narcotic in discreet doses. It soothes the fever, occasionally high, of the brain at work, and produces in the mind a soft, fresh vapor that corrects the all too angular contours of pure thought, fills up the gaps and intervals here and there, binds them together, and dulls the sharp corners of ideas. But too much reverie submerges and drowns. Woe to the intellectual who lets him fall completely from thought into reverie! He thinks he will rise again easily, and he says that, after all, it is the same thing. An error!

Thought is the labor of the intellect, reverie its pleasure. To replace thought with reverie is to confound poison with nourishment.