If fame is only to come after death, I am in no hurry for it.

Most authors seek fame, but I seek for justice—a holier impulse than ever entered into the ambitious struggles of the votaries of that fickle, flirting goddess.

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.

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

Reality is always the foe of famous names.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

Those who know the joys and miseries of celebrities when they have passed the age of forty know how to defend themselves.