He who treats another human being as divine thereby assigns to himself the relative status of a child or an animal.

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.

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.

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

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

All people have the common desire to be elevated in honor, but all people have something still more elevated in themselves without knowing it.

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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