Fame is but the empty noise of madmen.

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

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.

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.

When I do a show, the whole show revolves around me, and if I don’t show up, they can just forget it.

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.

There lurks in every human heart a desire of distinction which inclines every man first to hope and then to believe that nature has given him something peculiar to himself. 

Reality is always the foe of famous names.

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.

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

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

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