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

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.

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

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

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

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.

I am sick and tired of publicity. I want no more of it. It puts me in a bad light. I just want to be forgotten.

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.

There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.

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

FAMOUS, adj. Conspicuously miserable.

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