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

Possessions, outward success, publicity, luxury—to me these have always been contemptible. I believe that a simple and unassuming manner of life is best for everyone, best both for the body and the mind.

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

He who treats another human being as divine thereby assigns to himself the relative status of a child or an animal.

Happy is the man who hath never known what it is to taste of fame—to have it is a purgatory, to want it is a hell!

Fame is no sanctuary from the passing of youth. Suicide is much easier and more acceptable in Hollywood than growing old gracefully.

Those who know the joys and miseries of celebrities when they have passed the age of forty know how to defend themselves.

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.

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

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

Famous, adj. Conspicuously miserable.

Reality is always the foe of famous names.

Now there is fame! Of all—hunger, misery, the incomprehension by the public—fame is by far the worst. It is the castigation by God of the artist. It is sad. It is true.