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

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.

Famous, adj. Conspicuously miserable.

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

Reality is always the foe of famous names.

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

Happy is the man who hath never known what it is to taste of fame—to have it is a purgatory, to want it is a hell!

Those who know the joys and miseries of celebrities when they have passed the age of forty know how to defend themselves.

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

What is popularly called fame is nothing but an empty name and a legacy from paganism.

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.

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

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