Fame is but the empty noise of madmen.

Famous, adj. Conspicuously miserable.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.