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?

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

Wood burns because it has the proper stuff in it, and a man becomes famous because he has the proper stuff in him.

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. 

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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