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. 

If fame is only to come after death, I am in no hurry for it.

Fame is but the empty noise of madmen.

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.

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