"The love of letters is the forlorn hope of the man of letters. His ruling passion is the love of fame."

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What a wretched thing is all fame! A renown of the highest sort endures, say, for two thousand years. And then? Why, then, a fathomless eternity swallows it. Work for eternity; not the meagre rhetorical eternity of the periodical critics, but for the real eternity wherein dwelleth the Divine.

— Thomas Carlyle