Spike Magazine

Spike | 15 YEARS OF BOOKS, MUSIC, ART, IDEAS | www.spikemagazine.com
my time wondering if the man in the deli really wishes
me to ‘have a nice day.’ If he didn’t, then he wouldn’t
say it, surely.” Quentin warms to his theme. “In New
York, everyone is your instant friend. If you were to
stand up in this diner now and shout, ‘I’m putting on
a cabaret’, then everyone would gather round and ask,
‘Where will it be?’, ‘What will it be about?’, ‘Who will
you hire?’. If you did that in England, there would be
absolute silence, everyone would stare into their soup
and think, ‘How appallingly embarrassing.’”
Quentin is now the most interesting octogenarian on
earth, enjoying “growing old disgracefully” as he puts
it, with his purple rinsed hair and layers of foundation
still firmly in evidence. “The problem with England is
that everyone is convinced that you can’t make a living
doing nothing. However, in this I feel I have succeeded
to some degree.” Quentin’s New York existence is
made up of socialising, film reviewing and various appearances
in movies, TV and the theatre. “I live quite
comfortably on publicity champagne and peanuts. The
last time I went to a launch I took a friend. He immediately
dived for the champagne and I had to say, ‘No,
no! Act more like a star!’”
Quentin also entertains an endless stream of wellwishers
from all over the world by the simple expedient
of having his number listed in the New York phone
directory. This leads to all manner of curious individuals
contacting him. “A young lady once phoned me at
BUY Quentin Crisp books online from and
seven in the morning and asked how she could make
sure that didn’t smudge her lipstick. I said, ‘Don’t drink
anything, don’t eat anything and certainly don’t kiss
anything.’ You’d think she could have worked it out for
herself.” Despite his avid socialising, Quentin refuses
to buy an answerphone. “To me it would be pure science
fiction.”
The only concession Quentin makes to his age is to
spend two days a week “doing absolutely nothing” in
his tiny bedsitting room on the Lower East Side. “I have
to recharge my batteries. When you live in New York,
as soon as you leave the house, you are under starter’s
orders.” During these quiet moments, Quentin does
crosswords – “they are the aerobics of the soul” – and,
at the end of each month, writes his diary. Mentioning
Resident Alien does not gain the normal authorial response
concerning a new print baby: “Ah yes,” Quentin
says, “I’ve just finished reading the proofs for that.”
His eyes twinkle mischievously. “It’s absolute rubbish!
They’ve taken out all of the dates, all of the places and
all of the names for fear of causing offence.” He raises
his eyes heavenward in mock resignation, knowing
full well that it would be the most heinous breach of
etiquette to say anything complimentary about his own
new book.
Sadly, even with the publication of Resident Alien,
the chances of Quentin returning to these shores are
slim. “My agent asked me if I would be willing to go
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