Quotes About Gossip

My arse contemplates those who talk behind my back.

I keep myself away from people who talk badly about others.

It's incomprehensible for me to hear another dude talk about another's dude's pockets and have that matter and argue about that.

Getting talked about is one of the penalties for being pretty, while being above suspicion is about the only compensation for being homely.

It seems there's always another rumor about my life; some people are simply talked about more than others.

The more you are talked about the less powerful you are.

For a while, my private life was the most talked about thing.

I've been talked about by a lot better people than the general public.

Usually, I prefer not to clarify anything that is being talked about me, but when it goes out of limits, I reply.

I believe they talked of me, for they laughed consumedly.

One thing which I know about this world of glamour is that it is better to have people talking about you than not being talked about at all.

Everybody gets talked about. Jesus Christ got talked about. It's just what happens. It's just part of it. And if people aren't talking, it's like, who are you? So I really let the people talk.

There's a lot of people all over the world that talked about me.

You know, people make a lot of money talking about me, don't they?

I'm sure you can imagine it's pretty frustrating to have people talking about your private life who don't know anything about it.

I don't like being overexposed. I don't like being on covers. And I don't like people talking about me.

Catty is not cool. I can't think of anything less becoming than a man who talks about people behind their backs.

Donald Trump talks about everyone behind their backs.

It's really easy, once somebody passes away, for the tales about them to become taller, the good ones and the bad ones.

Gossip about who in the tribe is cleverest has probably been a topic of conversation around the fire since fires, and conversation, were invented.

Bad news has good legs.

Someone called all the newspapers in New York and told them I'd died. I've been told by almost everyone it was an ex-wife - I've had a few so it's hard to pinpoint which one - but who knows for sure?

In the end, everybody gay in Albany knows everybody gay in Albany. Eventually you always end up in the bed you started out in. I mean, this is the Hudson Valley, Newell, not West Hollywood. You can do it.

Like frustrated suburban wives we fed on each other's discontent; we became divided into mean little cliques and subdivided into jealously shifting pairs of buddies, and we pieced out our idleness with gossip.