The journalists who came to interview me were a mixed bunch: some were reasonably pleasant, some were clinical, others were demanding. It was impossible to tell what sort of gloss they would put on an interview in advance. French journalists, Spanish journalists, representatives of all nations, came in an endless stream, all wanting a different slant on the science and on the background. They brought their superficial interviewing techniques to the situation; in turn, I developed my own techniques for dealing with them by deciding in advance how much information I was prepared to part with. I saw no reason why I should confide all the intimate complexities of my life to a journalist, a stranger whose interest in me was governed by the imperative to sell more newspapers. If I wanted to confess, I would turn to a priest, if I needed psychiatric treatment I would turn to a doctor, and if I had a story to tell I might one day write it myself, though regard for privacy – my own and other people’s – might well outweigh the desire to tell that story.
— Travelling to Infinity (Jane Hawking), Loc. 6519–26