Since that first showing of Foolish Wives I have seemed to walk through vast crowds of people, their white American faces turned towards me in stern reproof.
It is not because I do not love my adopted land - it is the natural feeling of one far from home, who remembers those happy, carefree days when life flowed at full tide, without responsibility, flashing past one like the drama in a fascinating story of adventure and romance.
If I speak of Vienna it must be in the past tense, as a man speaks of a woman he has loved and who is dead.
And yet because of my attempt at sincerity I have been condemned, hooted at, reviled; filthy rumors have been circulated about me, not about my characterizations but about me personally, my private self.
The picture has made its million back in four months; I have been overwhelmed by letters, hundreds of them, literally, begging me in my next production not to swing over the shallow trash of mother love, father love, sister love, brother love.
I could not work with a girl who did not have a spiritual quality.
Fay has spirituality too, but she also has that very real sex appeal that takes hold of the hearts of men.
Bobbed hair makes women look uniform. They lack individuality.
I was reared in an atmosphere where a great deal of attention was paid to women's hairdressing.
I would like to have you quote me, Erich von Stroheim, as having said on this day of this month of this year this one thing: you Americans are living on baby food.
As soon as I had seen Fay Wray and spoken with her for a few minutes, I knew I had found the right girl.
Because I select my players from a feeling that comes to me when I am with them, a certain sympathy you might call it, or a vibration that exists between us that convinces me they are right.
For my Vienna is as different from what they call Vienna now as the quick is different from the dead.