Fame will go by and, so long, I’ve had you, fame. If it goes by, I’ve always known it was fickle. So at least it’s something I experienced, but that’s not where I live.

Men are generally more pleased with a widespread than with a great reputation.

Fame is but the empty noise of madmen.

I would much rather have men ask why I have no statue than why I have one.

Now there is fame! Of all—hunger, misery, the incomprehension by the public—fame is by far the worst. It is the castigation by God of the artist. It is sad. It is true.

He who treats another human being as divine thereby assigns to himself the relative status of a child or an animal.

Possessions, outward success, publicity, luxury—to me these have always been contemptible. I believe that a simple and unassuming manner of life is best for everyone, best both for the body and the mind.

Avoid the talk of men. For talk is mischievous, light, and easily raised, but hard to bear and difficult to be rid of. Talk never wholly dies away when many people voice her: even talk is in some ways divine.

Wood burns because it has the proper stuff in it, and a man becomes famous because he has the proper stuff in him.

What is popularly called fame is nothing but an empty name and a legacy from paganism.

Being a star has made it possible for me to get insulted in places where the average Negro could never hope to go and get insulted.

All people have the common desire to be elevated in honor, but all people have something still more elevated in themselves without knowing it.

I’m afraid of losing my obscurity. Genuineness only thrives in the dark. Like celery.