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To be rich, to be famous? do these profit a year hence, when other names sound louder than yours, when you lie hidden away under ground, along with the idle titles engraven on your coffin? But only true love lives after you, follows your memory with secret blessings or pervades you, and intercedes for you. Non omnis moriar, if, dying, I yet live in a tender heart or two; nor am lost and hopeless, living, if a sainted departed soul still loves and prays for me.
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To become a celebrity is to become a brand name. There is Ivory Soap, Rice Krispies, and Philip Roth. Ivory is the soap that floats; Rice Krispies the breakfast cereal that goes snap-crackle-pop; Philip Roth the Jew who masturbates with a piece of liver.
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To get a name can happen but to few; it is one of the few things that cannot be brought. It is the free gift of mankind, which must be deserved before it will be granted, and is at last unwillingly bestowed.
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To have fame follow us is well, but it is not a desirable avant-courier.
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To many fame comes too late.
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To myself alone do I owe my fame. [Fr., Je ne dois qu’a moi seul toute ma renommee.]
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To some characters, fame is like an intoxicating cup placed to the lips,–they do well to turn away from it who fear it will turn their heads. But to others fame is ‘love disguised,’ the love that answers to love in its widest, most exalted sense.
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To the quick brow Fame grudges her best wreath While the quick heart to enjoy it throbs beneath: On the dead forehead’s sculptured marble shown, Lo, her choice of crown–its flowers are also stone.
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To want fame is to prefer dying scorned than forgotten
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Unblemish’d let me live or die unknown; Oh, grant an honest fame, or grant me none!
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Unlike the sun, intellectual luminaries shine brightest after they set.
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Vain ambition of kings Who seek by trophies and dead things To leave a living name behind, And weave but nets to catch the wind.
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Vain empty words Of honour, glory and immortal fame, Can these recall the spirit from its place, Or re-inspire the breathless clay with life? What tho’ your fame with all its thousand trumpets, Sound o’er the sepulchres, will that awake The sleeping dead.
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Valor and power may gain a lasting memory, but where are they when the brave and mighty are departed? Their effects may remain, but they live not in them any more than the fire in the work of the potter.
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We all want to be famous people, and the moment we want to be something we are no longer free.
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We always hear about the haves and the have-nots. Why don’t we hear about the doers and the do-nots.
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We have so little presumption that we should like to be known in the world, even to those who come after when we are no more. We have so little vanity that the esteem of five people, say six, amuses us, does us honour.
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We may elevate ourselves but we should never reach so high that we would every forget those who helped us get there.
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We movie stars all end up by ourselves. Who knows? Maybe we want to.
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We toil for fame, We live on crusts, We make a name, Then we are busts.
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