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.

We all have a contract with the public—in us they see themselves, or what they would like to be.

Reality is always the foe of famous names.

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.

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

And what will history say of me a thousand years hence?

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.

Fame is but the empty noise of madmen.

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

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. 

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