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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

Being a star has made it possible for me to get insulted in places where the average Negro could never hope to go and get insulted.

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

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

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