We all have a contract with the public—in us they see themselves, or what they would like to be.

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.

I am sick and tired of publicity. I want no more of it. It puts me in a bad light. I just want to be forgotten.

Famous, adj. Conspicuously miserable.

Worldly fame is but a breath of wind that blows now this way, now that, and changes names as it changes in direction.

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.

And what will history say of me a thousand years hence?

They are trying to make me into a fixed star. I am an irregular planet.

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

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

A woman’s greatest glory is to be little talked about by men, whether for good or ill.

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.