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

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

How sweet it is to have people point and say, “There he is.”

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

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

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.