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.

And what will history say of me a thousand years hence?

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

Worldly fame is but a breath of wind that blows now this way, now that, and changes names as it changes in direction.

FAMOUS, adj. Conspicuously miserable.

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

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.”

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

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

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.

What a heavy burden is a name that has become too famous.