Robinson Crusoe and the Protestant Work Ethic The story of Robinson Crusoe is, in a very obvious sense, a morality tale about a rebellious young man but typical, without particular talent, whose life in the end everything went well because he discovered the importance of values ​​that really matter. The values ​​he discovers are those associated with the Protestant work ethic, those virtues that arise from the Puritan sense of religious life as total commitment to a calling, unceasing service in what generally appears as a very limited but often demanding commitment. The central concern of Robinson Crusoe's experiences on the island is work. The vast majority of the text is devoted to describing his relentless efforts at mundane tasks. Robinson Crusoe is clearly anxious to persuade his readers that he has never been idle. Many of his exploits may have been futile (such as his first large boat, which he couldn't move in the water), but they kept him busy. We might ask ourselves to what extent he needs to do all the things he describes to us, such as, for example, making bread or living off the products he creates through his own agriculture. Is there no natural sustenance on the island that can be obtained with less labor? And fishing? Wouldn't it be easier? He tries and succeeds, but he doesn't stay there. Why not? Surely, given the current affairs of the island, he won't have to work so hard? Questions like this miss the point. Robinson Crusoe is a tribute to work and the overwhelming message is: God put us in this world to work. This, in effect, means directing our energies to transform the world around us, to shape it according to our will, in the middle of the paper, with a kind of secret pleasure (even if mixed with my other afflicted thoughts), to think that this was all mine, that I was king and lord of all this country indefinitely, and had a right of possession; and if I could pass it on, I could have it by inheritance, like any lord of a manor in England. (101)The language of this quote is interesting. He admits to taking pleasure in what he has accomplished, but there is guilt in the admission (he must remind us that he too has afflictions). And he frames his feelings of satisfaction entirely in legal terms (“indefectibly,” “right to possess,” “to convey”). What stimulates his satisfaction is not the achievement or the beauty or the sense of one's proven skill, but the sense of legal belonging. He went from being a castaway to the equivalent of an aristocrat.