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.

Avoid the talk of men. For talk is mischievous, light, and easily raised, but hard to bear and difficult to be rid of. Talk never wholly dies away when many people voice her: even talk is in some ways divine.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

Happy is the man who hath never known what it is to taste of fame—to have it is a purgatory, to want it is a hell!

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

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

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

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