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

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

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

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.

Reality is always the foe of famous names.

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.

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

Fame is but the empty noise of madmen.

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

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.

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

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

Famous, adj. Conspicuously miserable.