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.

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

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

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

Famous, adj. Conspicuously miserable.

How sweet it is to have people point and say, “There he is.”

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.

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

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

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

There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.

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.

What a heavy burden is a name that has become too famous.