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

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.

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

Reality is always the foe of famous names.

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.

If fame is only to come after death, I am in no hurry for it.

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

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

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.

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.

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

Fame is but the empty noise of madmen.

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