HOW WE MET: BRIAN ALDISS AND ANTHONY STORR

The science fiction writer Brian Aldiss, aged 70, was born in Norfolk. He has just published his 74th book, The Secret Of This Book. Also a poet and playwright, he lives in Oxford with his second wife, Margaret. They have two children; he has two others from his previous marriage. The psychiatrist and writer Dr Anthony Storr, 75, was clinical lecturer in psychiatry at Oxford University until 1984. His books include Solitude: A Return to the Self and The Dynamics of Creation. He lives in Oxford with his second wife, Catherine. He has three daughters from his first marriage

BRIAN ALDISS: I remember very clearly the first time I met Anthony. It was over dinner at Willow Cottage, in Moreton, near Thame, the country home of my then literary agent, Hilary Rubinstein. It was, I think, in the spring of 1974. Anthony and his wife, Cath-erine, had recently moved to Oxford and as soon as I found out that Hilary knew them, I pestered him to introduce us. Like a ridiculous lad I went home that night and wrote in my diary in red ink: "Met Anthony Storr."

I don't think I said much that evening, I was so in awe of Anthony. I had admired him long before we met. I thought he was such a marvellous book reviewer. I cut out and kept his reviews in a bottom drawer, and on several occasions was persuaded to buy books on the strength of what he had to say about them. In the beginning, I didn't know he was a psychiatrist.

Anthony adopts the pose of "The wise old owl who sits in the oak, the more he heard the less he spoke." He has a very high reputation, but he is a modest man. It surprised me to discover how marvellously unassuming he was. He says he hasn't an imaginative power, but I find his thoughts hugely imaginative. It's one of the reasons why I love the man.

Anthony once described himself as a distant person. He says he sees me as gregarious, but I think he is under a flattering illusion. Being with him makes me gregarious; he is such an interesting person. One of the things we have in common is that we are both distant people. In the early days of our friendship, I regarded Anthony as a central part of the Oxford scene, but since I got to know him better I have come to think that, perhaps like me, he is one of those people who live on the margin of life.

He wrote a wonderful book called Solitude, in which he talks of the necessity of solitude, and how in the modern world people think you should be a good mixer and all that, but that genius needs solitude. Like all writers, I sometimes think of myself as a genius, however mistakenly, because I have to encourage myself or I would get depressed. I practise solitude and so does Anthony, and although we are fond of each other and like each other's writing, we don't actually have to see a lot of each other for our friendship to flourish. There are vast areas of understanding between us. I suppose we have dinner in each other's homes once or twice a year and meet up at friends' houses in between.

One of the reasons we get on so well is perhaps because we talk so freely. Anthony is a good listener, that's his professional training. He is very easy to talk to if you get on to his wavelength. He is a very gentle person.

The things we have in common are many and varied. We were both sent off to boarding school very early, for in-stance, and I know Anthony hated school and was very unhappy. I was distraught about being packed off at seven, and always felt I had been sent away because I was a nuisance. Anthony and I are both on a second marriage. I greatly admire Anthony's wife, Catherine - I love Oxford bluestockings - but I am much more frightened of her than I am of Anthony. She is a much more challenging person. I suspect Anthony and I share political leanings. We are both interested in society and imprisonment and in scientific things and gadgets. I was nicknamed "The Professor" at school because of my inventions - though that was in the technical age of the rubber band. We both write using computers.

I have never asked Anthony for advice, but I have learnt a great deal from him. I have been enormously encouraged by his book The Dynamics of Creation. I have two copies: one is unsullied, and the other is covered with my pencil markings. So many times, as I read it, it seemed as though he was speaking directly to me, especially during a bad patch a few years ago when, although plenty of people were reading my books, reviewers seemed to think what I was writing was rubbish.

Anthony helped me to make sense of what I was writing. I see him as a guru. I think he is a guru to many people. Among the many marvellous things I remember him saying in conversation is that discontent is inseparable from being human. But when I had psychotherapy, after being struck down by post-viral fatigue syndrome, I didn't discuss it with him - he is my friend, not my analyst.

We both suffer from depression and we are also both quite good at keeping things to ourselves. I think I can detect the signs when Anthony is feeling low, but I have never known him gloomy. Both of us tend to go out of circulation if we are feeling down.

I wish I had his power of understanding of the mind. I don't see myself as an amateur psychiatrist, but I read a lot of Freud when I was at school, and felt that Freud was hard on creativity as a replacement activity, where Jung was less so. Anthony seems to share my view. When he wrote The Dynamics of Creation, he seemed to me to be moving from a Freudian position to a Jungian one. What I like about the book is that it shows creativity as a pleasure: why do we sit alone and write? Because we enjoy it.

In the 20-odd years I have known him, Anthony hasn't aged. He may walk more slowly than when we first met, but so do I. A few years ago, I was made a fellow of the Royal Society of Literature. I have a feeling that Anthony was behind that, but I wouldn't dare to ask him. The people who do you the greatest favours don't tell you - discretion is one of Anthony's great attributes. I adore the man.

ANTHONY STORR: I can't remember the details of when or where Brian and I met, but it was soon after my wife and I moved to Oxford when I came to teach psychiatry to post-graduate doctors in 1974, and I have known him through four house moves.

He is a very sociable person and seems to have lots of friends. He is great fun to be with, always inventive and amusing and has an odd angle on the universe which I like very much indeed. He stands out as a marvellous conversationalist. In the serious Oxford world in which we live, where philosophers only tend to know philosophers and linguistic specialists other linguistic specialists, Brian's range of interests makes him an enormously refreshing companion.

He has never seemed to be intimidated by my profession, and I should hope not - though some people tend to talk of psychiatrists as having "X-ray eyes". I retired in 1984 and now spend my time like Brian does, writing.

I am extremely envious of Brian's marvellous story-telling facility. The only time I tried to write a novel it was such rubbish I had to tear it up, and I have never tried again, yet Brian goes on and on and on producing fiction.

He claims he doesn't like reviewing, but I love it. It makes me read things I wouldn't otherwise read and I enjoy having to say a great deal in a short space. I am very flattered to learn that Brian reads my reviews. I didn't know anybody took any notice of them. If I was asked I would certainly review one of Brian's books, though I suppose it would be with some hesitation - because if I hated it I wouldn't feel I could say so, and if I liked it people might think I was prejudiced because we were friends. I am not particularly a science fiction enthusiast. It is Brian's story-telling facility I admire.

Every time we meet, Brian and I pick up where we left off, and I think we both have absolute confidence that the next time we get together it will be just the same as the last. We have an ongoing relationship, even though we don't see very much of each other.

We both spend quite a high proportion of our time alone. One of the things we have in common is this power of retreating into our own worlds, and Brian creates world after world. We talk the same language, in a sense, because we are both aware of what it is to have our own ideas and our own little rooms irrespective of our interaction with other people. That is a great bond.

We share certain enthusiasms, in literature for instance. Brian introduced me to an extremely interesting book by a mad lady called Anna Kavan - he sent me a copy of Ice, which is like the diary of a psychotic. Brian's interest in odd mental experience is another strong link between us. Subjective experiences of madness, when well written, are extraordinarily interesting. It's like being in a different world where all the ordinary criteria have gone and in a way is like being in a science fiction world. I suppose people who are interested in science fiction are a bit out of the ordinary. Anybody who invents as much as Brian is bound to be out of the ordinary.

Brian and I also share an interest in Jung and Freud, whom we both see as representative of 20th-century thought. We are both critical of Freud, though, because he seemed to have no place for the imagination as a positive thing. For Freud, imagination was always escapist, a substitute for or getting away from. Brian and I share the impression that Freud's ideal chap was an absolutely rational four-square person who never had any imaginative activity at all. I was trained as a Jungian originally, but, like Brian, I hate being labelled.

We also have the same attitudes to imprisonment, which we condemn as a means of punishment. Politically we lean the same way. We agree entirely about Michael Howard.

Brian and I both write using a computer. I think the word processor is the greatest invention of the age. I'd give up my car any day before I'd give up my word processor. Brian says that when he gets up in the morning he's longing to get back to his computer.

We both suffer from depression. Occasionally on first meeting I have noticed that Brian has a gloomy expression, but this immediately disappears once he starts talking. I have never known Brian lost for words. The close friends I made in my youth have all died, so I treasure very much the friends, like Brian, I have made in old age.

If ever I am stuck and can't think what to write, I pick up one of Brian's books and I can always find in it some stimulating new idea. He surprises me all the time. I only have to pick up his latest book, which I am currently reading, to be surprised. There are always unexpected things coming out of him. That's what I like about him. I wish I had his fertility of invention. I would love, professionally, to investigate the sources of his creativity with words - but that would be the end of a beautiful friendship. !