Introduction - by Donald Carroll
Here begins 'Resident Alien'
. . . for this most English of Englishmen (whatever he may say) to uproot himself, in his seventies, and move from London to New York required, above all, exceptional courage. This means his move came as no surprise to those who know him well, because we know him to be, above all, a man of courage.
. . . Quentin has now lived for fifteen years in one of Manhattan's most insalubrious neighbourhoods - the Lower East Side, hard by the Bowery - alongside drug dealers, pimps, derelicts, Hell's Angels and all manner of low life, without ever having been assaulted or even threatened. He has lived all those years with a listed telephone number and yet receives fewer crank calls than the average house-wife in Kansas City.
What accounts for this unique exemption from all the menaces and hassles that the rest of us would endoubtedly suffer were we to live as he lives, where he lives? His own explanation, typically, omits any mention of himself: it is entirely due to the friendliness and tolerance of others. Which may be true, but which misses the point. The point is that the friendliness and tolerance his presence inspires is reflected friendliness, mirrored tolerance. Although he would probably laugh uproariously at the notion, the fact is that it is almost impossible to behave badly in his company.
Of course if that was all there was to it, I would be writing here about an unfailingly honest and decent old man who richly deserves the solicitude of his neighbours. Instead I am writing about a man admired and celebrated throughout the English-Speaking world. What links the two, and incorporates the former into the latter, is, as everyone knows, his coruscating wit - his almost alchemical wizardry in converting seemingly lacklustre truths into lustrous apercus. It is no exageration to say that Quentin Crisp could well be the wittiest man alive.
For that reason, unfortunately but understandably, he is often spoken of as the Oscar Wilde de nos jours. The comparison, however well-intentioned, does Quentin a disservice. . . whereas Wilde was reduced to wallowing in lachrymose self-pity and writing mawkish verse until his lonely death at the age of forty-six, Quentin at the age of eighty-six is still cheerfully holding the door open for late-comers to his party.
Do come in, I promise you a good time.
DONALD CARROLL
London, Spring 1995
. . . for this most English of Englishmen (whatever he may say) to uproot himself, in his seventies, and move from London to New York required, above all, exceptional courage. This means his move came as no surprise to those who know him well, because we know him to be, above all, a man of courage.
. . . Quentin has now lived for fifteen years in one of Manhattan's most insalubrious neighbourhoods - the Lower East Side, hard by the Bowery - alongside drug dealers, pimps, derelicts, Hell's Angels and all manner of low life, without ever having been assaulted or even threatened. He has lived all those years with a listed telephone number and yet receives fewer crank calls than the average house-wife in Kansas City.
What accounts for this unique exemption from all the menaces and hassles that the rest of us would endoubtedly suffer were we to live as he lives, where he lives? His own explanation, typically, omits any mention of himself: it is entirely due to the friendliness and tolerance of others. Which may be true, but which misses the point. The point is that the friendliness and tolerance his presence inspires is reflected friendliness, mirrored tolerance. Although he would probably laugh uproariously at the notion, the fact is that it is almost impossible to behave badly in his company.
Of course if that was all there was to it, I would be writing here about an unfailingly honest and decent old man who richly deserves the solicitude of his neighbours. Instead I am writing about a man admired and celebrated throughout the English-Speaking world. What links the two, and incorporates the former into the latter, is, as everyone knows, his coruscating wit - his almost alchemical wizardry in converting seemingly lacklustre truths into lustrous apercus. It is no exageration to say that Quentin Crisp could well be the wittiest man alive.
For that reason, unfortunately but understandably, he is often spoken of as the Oscar Wilde de nos jours. The comparison, however well-intentioned, does Quentin a disservice. . . whereas Wilde was reduced to wallowing in lachrymose self-pity and writing mawkish verse until his lonely death at the age of forty-six, Quentin at the age of eighty-six is still cheerfully holding the door open for late-comers to his party.
Do come in, I promise you a good time.
DONALD CARROLL
London, Spring 1995