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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

Fame is but the empty noise of madmen.

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

Famous, adj. Conspicuously miserable.

I won’t be happy till I’m as famous as God.