Good people:

On your left, a young man who sits alone each evening in his own little-furnished home, amidst piles of papers, and a handful of clothes scattered about. He has a chair, perhaps, but not a SITTING PLACE. He shovels quick dinners of pasta or cups-o-soup. He does no housework unless it has an aspect of cognitive exercise: assembling a crude table out of 2 × 4s, let's say. He has a job, this or that, something he can tolerate without being consumed by it. Each night, he works on projects of his own. An autodidact, he absorbs esoteric realms of knowledge and works at advancing them. Soon, he hopes, he will achieve his holy grail: an elegant insight, and enjoy the respect of his unseen intellectual peers.

On your right, a young fellow with a glimmer of bonhomie; four nights out of seven are spent with a crowd of compatriots, or his beloved, and moments alone are spent reading, or writing letters to distant acquaintances. He exercises and stays fit: skiing remains fun, and when relaxing at the lodge with friends, he can leap to his feet for a drink request. All his time is filled with introspection—or extrospection, listening to and appreciating his friends, and offering advice, when he can. He listens closely to music—in a wide variety of genres from a range of eras. His abode is neatly furnished: a place for spending time, full of nooks for being alone and spaces for partying. He cooks: he cooks intricate meals; he insists on sharing them; he opens a bottle of wine every time you eat with him.

I suppose there is only "The Work."