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

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

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 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.

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

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.

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

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

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

Reality is always the foe of famous names.

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

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