Men are generally more pleased with a widespread than with a great reputation.

They are trying to make me into a fixed star. I am an irregular planet.

Being a star has made it possible for me to get insulted in places where the average Negro could never hope to go and get insulted.

I would much rather have men ask why I have no statue than why I have one.

Most authors seek fame, but I seek for justice—a holier impulse than ever entered into the ambitious struggles of the votaries of that fickle, flirting goddess.

What is popularly called fame is nothing but an empty name and a legacy from paganism.

How sweet it is to have people point and say, “There he is.”

When I do a show, the whole show revolves around me, and if I don’t show up, they can just forget it.

A woman’s greatest glory is to be little talked about by men, whether for good or ill.

Avoid the talk of men. For talk is mischievous, light, and easily raised, but hard to bear and difficult to be rid of. Talk never wholly dies away when many people voice her: even talk is in some ways divine.

Fame is but the empty noise of madmen.

If fame is only to come after death, I am in no hurry for it.

I won’t be happy till I’m as famous as God.