Fame is but the empty noise of madmen.

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.

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

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. 

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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