Fame is but the empty noise of madmen.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Reality is always the foe of famous names.

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

All people have the common desire to be elevated in honor, but all people have something still more elevated in themselves without knowing 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.