Fame is but the empty noise of madmen.

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

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

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

I would much rather have men ask why I have no statue than why I have one.

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

Men are generally more pleased with a widespread than with a great reputation.

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

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

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.

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.

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