Fame is fickle, and I know it. It has its compensations but it also has its drawbacks, and I've experienced them both.

Fame doesn't fulfill you. It warms you a bit, but that warmth is temporary.

The world looks with some awe upon a man who appears unconcernedly indifferent to home, money, comfort, rank, or even power and fame. The world feels not without a certain apprehension, that here is some one outside its jurisdiction; someone before whom its allurements may be spread in vain; some one strangely enfranchised, untamed, untrammelled by convention, moving independent of the ordinary currents of human action.

I think there are different kinds of fame. There's fame which is plastic and about paparazzi and money and being rich, and then there's the fame, which is when no one knows who you are but everyone wants to know who you are.

Toil and risk are the price of glory, but it is a lovely thing to live with courage and die leaving an everlasting fame.

Spurious fame spreads from tongue to tongue like the fog of the early dawn before the sun rises.