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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Those who know the joys and miseries of celebrities when they have passed the age of forty know how to defend themselves.

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.

Fame is but the empty noise of madmen.

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.