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.

Fame is but the empty noise of madmen.

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.

Reality is always the foe of famous names.

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

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.

A woman’s greatest glory is to be little talked about by men, whether for good or ill.

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

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

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

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