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

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.

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

All people have the common desire to be elevated in honor, but all people have something still more elevated in themselves without knowing it.

Reality is always the foe of famous names.

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.

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

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

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

Fame is but the empty noise of madmen.

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

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.