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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

They are trying to make me into a fixed star. I am an irregular planet.

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

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

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