The History of Famous Quotes

Why some sentences outlive their speakers — and why so many are fake.

Famous quotes are the fossils of language. They are the sentences that survive after everything else the speaker said has been forgotten. A handful of words outlive the speeches they came from, the books they were buried in, and very often the exact speaker they were first said by. Anyone who has spent time in a quote book, a high-school graduation program, or the bottom of a sports-brand Instagram post has seen this fossil record. What is less obvious is how the record got built, why certain shapes of sentence survive better than others, and why so many quotes are attributed to people who did not say them.

The age of the commonplace book

Before the internet, quotes traveled through commonplace books — private notebooks in which readers copied out lines they wanted to remember. The commonplace book was more than a journal. It was a kind of personal database, organized by theme (friendship, time, courage), and it was the main way educated Europeans thought about whatever they read. John Locke wrote a guide on how to keep one. Thomas Jefferson kept two of them. A good commonplace book let its owner produce a fitting quotation in almost any conversation, which is part of why eighteenth-century letters are so dense with references to Plutarch and Seneca.

The commonplace book had one flaw. Because readers copied quotes out of context and rarely bothered with an exact citation, the same sentence might show up ten years later in a different book with a different author attached. Over time, dozens of the lines we think of as “classical” have drifted between speakers. Some of our favorite Marcus Aurelius lines were probably written by people paraphrasing him a generation later.

Quote dictionaries and the first quote economy

By the nineteenth century, quote dictionaries were an industry. Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations first appeared in 1855 as a slim pamphlet from a Cambridge, Massachusetts bookseller. It has been revised more than a dozen times since and remains a central source for English-language quote references today. Its authority comes from its editors’ willingness to check sources. When Bartlett’s disagrees with a famous wall poster, the wall poster is almost certainly wrong.

The economic impact of these reference books was enormous. Speechwriters, journalists, and clergy all depended on them. A minister could flip to “death” in the index and find five lines suitable for a eulogy. A politician could find a rousing Lincoln for the lectern. The quote-dictionary economy shaped what ordinary people thought of as “great writing”, because what got indexed tended to get repeated, and what got repeated got famous.

The misattribution problem

A strange thing happens when a sentence becomes famous. People start assigning it to whoever feels most famous in the right way. This is why Albert Einstein gets credit for lines about curiosity and imagination that he almost certainly never said, why Mark Twain gets credit for acidic observations he never wrote, and why Marilyn Monroe gets credit for modern life-advice quotes that postdate her death by fifty years.

The Yale librarian Fred R. Shapiro, who edited The Yale Book of Quotations, has a memorable term for this: he calls it the “Matthew Effect” of quotation, after the biblical line about how those who have, get more. Famous speakers accumulate quotes. The more famous they become, the easier it is to pin somebody else’s line onto them and have people nod along.

Some examples of famous misattributions:

Misattribution is so common that quote-verification has become its own niche discipline. The Quote Investigator website, run by Garson O’Toole, has tracked down original sources for hundreds of famous lines. It is a useful corrective. If a quote feels too neat for the person it is assigned to, check before you tattoo it.

Why some quotes survive

Not every memorable sentence becomes famous. The ones that do tend to share a few features:

Translation, and what gets lost

Many of the most-quoted lines in English are translations. “I think, therefore I am” is the English of Descartes’s Latin cogito ergo sum, which was itself a translation of his earlier French je pense, donc je suis. Each translation shifts the quote slightly. The cadence of Biblical King James English, Shakespeare, and Cicero is so familiar to us partly because generations of translators shaped those texts in English to feel quotable — often adding rhetorical balance that was not in the original.

This is worth keeping in mind whenever you run into a translated quote. If Lao-Tzu sounds like a New England transcendentalist in English, that is because the English translator was probably reading New England transcendentalists. The reverse is true of translations of Emerson into Chinese. Famous sentences mutate when they travel.

The internet quote era

The internet has mostly amplified the old problems. Image macros spread faster than citations, and the sentence “Not everything you read on the internet is true. —Abraham Lincoln” is both a joke and an accurate description of the modern quote economy. Fact-checking tools exist but are not as fast as the copy-paste reflex.

There is a brighter side, though. Digitized archives make it possible, for the first time, to check exactly what somebody wrote or said. You can read Lincoln’s handwritten drafts online. You can search every speech from the House of Commons since the 19th century. You can verify whether Einstein actually wrote the sentence a friend sent you this morning. The misquote problem is not going away, but the tools to fight it have never been better.

What all this has to do with Quotedle

When we pick quotes for Quotedle, we try to pull from the set of sentences that survive because they earned it: well-sourced, recognizable, and meaningful on their own. We avoid the misattribution graveyard because there is no fun in solving a puzzle whose answer turns out to be fake. In a small way, every puzzle is a vote for language that actually exists in writing.

Further reading