Reality is always the foe of famous names.

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

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

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.

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

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

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 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. 

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

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.

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.

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