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

Reality is always the foe of famous names.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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.