One of her interviewees, a woman, said, “I want a swimming pool and a big car and a nice house.” To me all those things would be a burden. I would have to look after each of them. Even the damned pool I would have to have cleaned every so often.

  They say that the longing for luxury is the result of all the television advertisements we are bombarded with nowadays. I can’t say I have noticed. When the adverts come on my television screen, I typically move about the room busying myself or making my evening meal, which consists chiefly of lumpy tea and green toast. I have never seen anything advertised on television that I would want.

  I have sometimes caught advertisements announcing grand sales events, however, where everything is offered to the public at 20% off. I can’t see how people know that is the case. I’m sure they just inflate their prices for the rest of the year so that they can bring them down occasionally to generate stampedes of shoppers. I wouldn’t know though. I have never attended a sale in my life. Sales mean crowds and crowds of people must be avoided at all costs.

  4. FRIENDS

  A friend is somebody who sees your problems from your point of view. It’s no good saying to someone who comes to you with his problems, “The thing is to pull yourself together,” because obviously the one thing he can’t do is deal with it alone. He’s come to you. So, you have to absorb his personality and see the situation - which seems to you ridiculous - from his point of view, which seems serious. And then you can really be a friend. Otherwise, you’re only a sort of monitor.

  If someone called me their friend, that would be nice. I would have to think about whether or not I deserved the title. Whether I had really seen his or her problems from their point of view. And if I hadn’t, I suppose I would have to correct my attitude until I did.

  I don’t have a best friend because that’s nearly as doom-laden as the words husband and wife. If you have a best friend, he meets you in the street and says, with feigned surprise, “Oh, you are alive. Naturally, I thought you were dead as you didn’t telephone me all of last week.” And you think, “I could have phoned him, but what would I have said?” But they feel you owe it to them to stay in touch with them. And you forget to place yourself at the disposal of other people because you don’t see any point in it, but this is wrong. If you are a friend, you have to see it from his point of view as well as your own. He clearly cares that you are no longer in his life.

  There are no special men in my life either. Generally, I try not to regard one person above another. I think that is wrong. If we give more of our time, our money or our interest to one person rather than another, they will become the millionaires of love. And I come from a generation of people who wanted to redistribute the wealth of the world. So, to me, investing so much love in one person is to spend it unwisely. What then will happen to love’s paupers? They should be our first concern: the unloved. So, there has never been a great love in my life. If there were, he would have to be somebody who was weaker, poorer and less equipped for life than I. So what kind of a man would he have been?

  When I share the news of my perpetual singledom with people they say, “Aren’t you lonely?” They fail to understand that people are only lonely if they don’t know what to do with their time when they’re alone. The lonely sit there thinking they are unloved, alone and of no use to the world. I, on the other hand, like to be alone because I feel I can rest and be my horrible self. You see, you have to be nice when you’re with other people and it’s a great strain. At least it is for me. So, I am very thankful when I get the chance to be by myself.

  If you’re alone and very glad of it, I wouldn’t describe that as loneliness. I would describe that as solitude, which is a neutral word not carrying with it the idea of abandonment. It is simply a state of being by yourself. I’ve lived most of my life alone. I have a television set which I turn on, but if I didn’t have it, I wouldn’t miss it. I could go on alone without it because I would feel I was lucky that no disaster had ever overtaken me.

  When the new towns were built in England, and they were put up in a few nights so that the families of factory workers could live there, all the women said, “I’m terribly lonely.” I wondered, “Have they said to the people next door, ‘I’m terribly lonely.’?” Because it seemed to me the problem of their loneliness could have been solved very easily.

  I think that loneliness changes with age as well. When you are young, you are lonely because you have no friends. You don’t know how to spend your time, so you feel you don’t want to be alone. When you are young, it takes companions to energize you and make you happy. But that’s the only time. I think only the young are lonely. For the rest of your life, you’re glad to be alone.

  There are lonely people in the world because they haven’t learned to be alone. In some way they associate happiness with other people. I shouldn’t think there are many lonely people in India, where you can be alone and meditate and all that. I should think lonely people only exist in the Western world. Such people make a grab at other people who don’t want them, and then they feel rejected and more alone than ever.

  Loneliness is also seen as a state absent of love. Now, I can’t tell you anything about love. I would have said that love is the extra effort that we make in our dealings with those whom we do not like. And if, misguidedly, we are going to give more of our time, our interests and our money to one person rather than another, which you should not do, it should be given to the unlovable first.

  There are a lot of people in the world who are not loved and we must make an inconspicuous dash to them to save them, to help them. To live a life and not be loved is a terrible thing. And we can spare them that if we are attentive.

  Now, I don’t really know when true love happens. But people are always telling me how they knew someone and weren’t in love with them, and then they were in love with them, and then they weren’t in love with them once more. I could never get at what they meant by ‘being in love’.

  Someone once said to me that they felt larger when they were in love, that they added the person to whom they loved to themselves and had a greater sort of life than they had before. That’s some kind of an answer, but it’s very difficult to define and I don’t fully understand it. I’ve never felt anything like love for anybody, except that I love everybody, of course, but that, I think, is different.

  A woman in England once said to me, “Everybody’s the same to you.” And I said, “No, they are all different, but they are all equal.” I don’t see how you can regard them any other way. Who are you to say that this person is better than that person? You don’t have the right. So, I really can’t believe in true love. I can’t say it doesn’t exist, but I’ve never experienced it and it has never been defined to me in a way which makes it understandable.

  Regardless, I feel that true love is not needed. If you are sure of yourself, you do not need affirmation from another person. If you’re with someone you can let them go. You can admire them and they can admire you. Do not make any demands of them. True love is a great mistake.

  Having never been in love, I don't think I really know what it means. I understand fancying somebody, wishing somebody well, or enjoying someone’s company, but what actually being in love is, I have no idea. Women become very angry when you say this. They say, “Of course you know what it is!” But I genuinely don’t. Or they will say, “Well, you see things differently when you’re in love.” They put on a weird, affected voice when they say this, but I am still none the wiser. I would never alter my life to please another person. I alter my life to please people, plural, but not to please a single person.

  When Ms. Streisand said, “The people who need people are the luckiest people in the world,” she was being a very funny girl. Because the people who need people are badly off! But at least she meant people, not a person. And if you need people, there are always plenty of them around. Then if somebody drops out, someone else will take his place. I don’t need any one person. I think it is a grave mistake to sit in your room wondering what some wretched man on another street is thinking about you. What does it matter? What matters is what you think about yourself.

  When people say that they admire me, and that is very nice, I try not to take it for granted and I thank them and try to look amazed. But I think I would be worried if they loved me because, one assumes, they would then attempt to pursue me, which to me would be very embarrassing and difficult.

  You won’t be surprised to learn that I don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day. I do not buy Valentine cards and send them, signed or unsigned. I simply ignore the whole thing.

  I have noticed that Valentine’s Day is celebrated very differently on either side of the Atlantic, however. The British do it in such a way that it is a secret and with a great deal of coyness. A girl receives a card showing an arrow through a heart that includes a tender message. Everyone then says, “Oh! You have a secret admirer.” She flutters her eyelids and she genuinely doesn’t know who it’s from. Of course, it may have been from her father or mother, but she doesn’t know this unless she recognizes the handwriting. She looks at the postmark and it’s sort of a game. Can one find out who her secret admirer is?

  By contrast, Americans can’t bear not to be acknowledged, so they tell you the card is from them. In America, you receive signed Valentine cards, so you know exactly who your admirer is. To me this seems to take away some of the romance. Or at least it removes the element of fun.

  When people know you are single and unloved, they assume you are lonely, and their next question is usually along the lines of, “Why don’t you get yourself a cat or a dog?”

  I don't like animals. Animals take up even more of your time than lovers. ‘Animal’ to me is a term of blame, as it was to the woman who wrote His Hour and Three Weekends[5]. In Glyn’s books, the narrative will say something like, ‘She flashed her inky pools of darkness at him. “Animal!” she hissed.’

  I don’t think people should have pets. Pets are substitutes for people. People are very proud to say, “I like animals more than people.” This is a terrible confession: that they like that which they can rule, rather than that which they have to accommodate.

  People say to me, “But you’ve never had a dog, have you?” And I say, “No.” And they say, “Oh, you would think quite differently if you had. You don’t understand. They love you unconditionally.” I understand this perfectly well.

  Owning a dog is to have the unconditional love of some wretched animal that barks, has to be taken out at seven in the morning in the snow and again at night, and has to have its poop cleaned away from the sidewalks when you venture out. They smell, they bark, they bite, they scratch, they jump, and what do they give you in return? Nothing. They should be left in the wild. They should be left to nature. I don't think we need animals in the world, except, perhaps, for food. In spite of what I regard as the obviousness of this, being American seems almost to require having a dog, but as I have said, this is a mistake.

  Of course, the telephone is my friend. I am always surprised to hear so many men say of a holiday away from their homes, “At least I’m away from the ’phone.” With what does the telephone threaten them? So many women never want to be a minute in a place where they cannot be reached by a telephone. It is their lifeline because women are talkers. Some of them even talk to their cat.

  I, too, am a talker. And, of course, I should have been born a woman. Back in England, I was frequently accused of talking for talking’s sake. What other reason, I asked, could anyone have for talking? If you speak merely to impart information, you are in trouble. There are only two kinds of information that can be imparted: what your hearer already knows, which is boring, or what he does not, which is humiliating.

  Because I live alone I never speak from one day to the next unless the telephone rings. I suppose I could call someone, but to me that seems like a desperate measure. In addition, it would cost me money and, as I have said before, money is for saving not for spending. For that reason, I do not own an answering machine. Apart from the fact that I wouldn’t know how to work it, it would mean that I might have to call people back. I can wait. I’m much happier waiting for them to call me again.

  When I answer the telephone, I do so softly and slowly. A friend once described my voice as being like the opening of a coffin; all creaking and groaning. It isn’t meant to be. It is intended to be cozy. It has been my experience that if people answer the telephone in a peremptory manner, their caller thinks, “I’ve called at a bad time.” It is never a bad time to call me. I have been waiting. I try never to cut a conversation short, but if I must, I always particularize my excuse for doing so. If I merely say, “I’m just on my way out,” my caller does not believe me. He immediately thinks I do not love him. Instead I say, “I am just going to LaGuardia Airport to meet a friend, who will be bewildered if I’m not there when he arrives.” That, they believe.

  All the same, I am aware that people call me to put me to the utmost test. The world seems to think that I am somehow boasting by having my number in the Manhattan telephone directory. They wish me to pay a terrible price for this, or else they think I am a fool for having my number listed.

  Nevertheless, I feel it is my duty to have my number available to everybody. If I, who am only English, am allowed to live in America, where happiness rains down from the skies, what can I give in return? Since I cannot build a university or endow a hospital, I feel it is my duty to offer my infinite availability.

  In Britain, everybody has his number in the London directory. I once looked for the number of the Westminster Library, wishing to ask them if they stocked a certain book so as to avoid going all the way there only to find that they didn’t. Just above their number, my eye caught sight of an entry: Westminster, Catherine Duchess of. Well, I thought, if the Duchess of Westminster can have her number in the telephone book, then so can I. Besides, if you are not listed, you may well be stuck with your current friends. Now, I like my friends, but I’m mad about strangers.

  I have no table in my room, so the telephone lies on the floor between my sole chair and the bed. That way it can be reached day or night. And people do call me late at night. Typically, the first thing such callers ask is, “Are you awake?” There are more unusual requests. A woman once called me at half past seven in the morning to ask me how to prevent her lipstick from blurring. My solution was flawless in its logic: “Never eat anything.”

  Another lady called to say that she had unwisely allowed her hairdresser to cut her hair very short and she now regretted it. What should she do? My answer was similar in nature to my previous advice: “Stay at home until it grows back to your preferred length.”

  While neither of these problems seemed urgent to me, they evidently were to the two women who contacted me. The thing that is hardest for me to understand is why some of my callers phone me without having decided what they are going to say. An apt conversation to highlight in this regard begins as follows:

  STRANGER: Could I possibly speak to Mr. Crisp?

  ME: This is me.

  STRANGER: Oh. I didn’t know that you would answer the phone yourself.

  ME: Who did you think would answer it?

  STRANGER: I don’t know. . . . A secretary.

  ME: At eleven at night?

  STRANGER: I feel like a fool now.

  ME: There’s no need for that. I’m pleased to hear whatever it is you have to say.

  This is not mere politeness. It’s true on my part. People are my only hobby. I’m pleased to hear whatever anyone has to say. No one is boring to me, unless he says the same thing in the same way more than once in the same conversation. I once said that no one is boring who will talk about himself. For this statement the press laughed at me. So, now I say that no one is boring who will tell the truth about himself.

  For when we say someone is boring it is in fact ourselves we criticize. We have not presented ourselves as a wide-open vessel into which a stranger feels he can pour anything. If someone is guarded in what he tells you, then he utters generalities. No one ever talks to me about the weather.

  Very few calls I receive are hostile. When Mr. Letterman told the world in a television interview that my number was listed, I received perhaps half a dozen calls threatening my life over the next six months. I took them calmly, asking if each caller wanted to make an appointment. The volume was nothing compared to what I had received in the past. In England, I received half a dozen such calls a day.

  Since I am not mechanically minded, and because of my great age, I am not teachable. As such, my telephone is of the old-fashioned dial variety and is wearing out. I know I will have difficulty acquiring a new one if it ever stops working. If it wears out before I do I may have to cease all telephonic communication entirely. That would make me very sad.

  Without my phone I would miss out on the gossip of the world. I mean gossip in its original meaning here. Gossip used to mean idle talk about anything. Now it means malicious idle talk, which is a pity because it shows how far we’ve sunk as people. We don’t idly talk about people, we speak maliciously about them. And that I think is bad.

  I was horrified when, on the television program Politically Incorrect, a woman novelist - a biographer called Cathy Kelly - was accused by Mr. Maher[6] of printing gossip. And a man who was also on the program said he thought it was a good idea that she wrote such books because it showed that the people we worshipped were no better than ourselves. I thought, “What a terrible thing that is to admit.” I would never speak about other people and their failings. I repeat praise, but I never repeat blame.

  I think the British gossip more than Americans. The English, who are so bent on those below them not entering their class, feel the need to defend themselves by saying nasty things about other people.