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

Fame is but the empty noise of madmen.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

And what will history say of me a thousand years hence?

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.

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

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

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.