Rudolph Valentino

Some of the tributes that have affected me the most have come from my 'fans' - friends - men, women, and little children. God bless them. Indeed, I feel that my recovery has been greatly advanced by the encouragement given me by everyone.

I used to go to the stables and fool with the mules. My mother lived in constant fear that I might be brought home with a hoof print on my stomach.

I usually played out and out heavies. No one else 'saw' me in any other role. No one else had ever believed I could be anything but a heavy. It was a heavy in a picture with Clara Kimball Young that June Mathis saw me and decided to cast me as Julio. 'There is the man for Julio,' she said, 'He, and no one other.'

I became to myself an imaginary figure of great excellence, daring and glamor.

June. June Mathis. No, no one else, ever. She gave me my start. She first, of all people, believed in me.

The part I like best was my role in 'Blood and Sand.' If I had died, I would have liked to be remembered as an actor by that role - I think it my greatest.

A man should control his life. Mine is controlling me.

I am begining to look more and more like my miserable imitators.

To generalize on women is dangerous. To specialize on them is infinitely worse.

I have been deeply touched by the many telegrams, cables and letters that have come to my bedside. It is wonderful to know that I have so many friends and well-wishers both among those it has been my privilege to meet and among the loyal unknown thousands who have seen me on the screen and whom I have never seen at all.

My father happened to be a doctor, and though I loved and idealized him privately, professionally I never had any use for him or anyone connected with that science.

An American may speak love with his lips; the Italian must say it with his eyes.

If the Italian is the most passionate lover in the world, it may be because he is the most restrained. Rigid convention denies him all contact with the lovelier girls, who never are free from chaperons.

The loneliest ebb of my life came on that Christmas eve, only one day after my arrival in New York. The abyss of loneliness. I ate a solitary dinner in a small cafe, and the very food tasted bitter with my unshed tears. One doesn't dare cry in America. It is unmanly here.

Women are not in love with me but with the picture of me on the screen. I am merely the canvas on which women paint their dreams.