All people have the common desire to be elevated in honor, but all people have something still more elevated in themselves without knowing it.

I am sick and tired of publicity. I want no more of it. It puts me in a bad light. I just want to be forgotten.

We all have a contract with the public—in us they see themselves, or what they would like to be.

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

Famous, adj. Conspicuously miserable.

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

Fame will go by and, so long, I’ve had you, fame. If it goes by, I’ve always known it was fickle. So at least it’s something I experienced, but that’s not where I live.

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

I’m afraid of losing my obscurity. Genuineness only thrives in the dark. Like celery.

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

There lurks in every human heart a desire of distinction which inclines every man first to hope and then to believe that nature has given him something peculiar to himself. 

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

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.