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

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.

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

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!

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

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.

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

Fame is but the empty noise of madmen.

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.

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 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.