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.

There lurks in every human heart a desire of distinction which inclines every man first to hope and then to believe that nature has given him something peculiar to himself. 

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

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 but the empty noise of madmen.

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

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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