Fame is but the empty noise of madmen.

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.

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.

Reality is always the foe of famous names.

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

A woman’s greatest glory is to be little talked about by men, whether for good or ill.

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.

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. 

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

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

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

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

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