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.

Fame is but the empty noise of madmen.

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

Famous, adj. Conspicuously miserable.