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.

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

Reality is always the foe of famous names.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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.