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

Reality is always the foe of famous names.

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.