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The whole earth is a sepulchre for famous men.
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The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo. [You, that way: we, this way.]
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The worst thing about being famous? I think it”s what everybody says; the lack of privacy and the idea that you”re not really allowed to make mistakes and everything that you do is viewed under a microscope
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There are names written in her immortal scroll at which Fame blushes!
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There have been as great souls unknown to fame as any of the most famous.
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There is no employment in the world so laborious as that of making to one’s self a great name; life ends before one has scarcely made the first rough draught of his work.
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There is not in the world so toilsome a trade as the pursuit of fame; life concludes before you have so much as sketched your work
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They wait in the wings a moment–then walk onstage to thunderous applause.
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They who are in highest places, and have the most power, have the least liberty, because they are most observed.
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Those who despise fame seldom deserve it. We are apt to undervalue the purchase we cannot reach, to conceal our poverty the better. It is a spark which kindles upon the best fuel, and burns brightest in the bravest breast.
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Those who have known the famous are publicly debriefed of their memories, knowing as their own dusk falls that they will only be remembered for remembering someone else.
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Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame! A draught that mantles high, And seems to lift this earthly frame Above mortality. Away! to me–a woman–bring Sweet water from affection’s spring.
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Though the desire of fame be the last weakness Wise men put off.
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Throughout my life, I have seen narrow — shouldered men, without a single exception, committing innumerable stupid acts, brutalizing their fellows and perverting souls by all means. They call the motive for their actions fame.
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Thy fanes, thy temple, to the surface bow, Commingling slowly with heroic earth, Broke by the share of every rustic plough: So perish monuments of mortal Birth, To perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth.
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Time has a doomsday book, upon whose pages he is continually recording illustrious names. But as often as a new name is written there, an old one disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated characters never to be effaced.
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Time magnifies everything after death; a man’s fame is increased as it passes from mouth to mouth after his burial. [Lat., Omnia post obitum fingit majora vetustas: Majus ab exsequiis nomen in ora venit.]
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‘Tis a petty kind of fame At best, that comes of making violins; And saves no masses, either. Thou wilt go To purgatory none the less.
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‘Tis the white stag, Fame, we’re a-hunting, bid the world’s hounds come to horn!
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To be read by bare inscriptions, like many in Gruter,–to hope for eternity by enigmatical epithets or first letters of our names–to be studied by antiquarians who we were, and have new names given us like many of the mummies, are cold consolation unto the students of perpetuity, even by everlasting languages.
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