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.

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

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.

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

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

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.