Relocating For Love Quotes

Vishous screamed. The only thing that was louder was the pop as the hip was relocated, as it were. And the last thing he saw before he checked out of the Conscious Inn & Suites was Jane's head whipping around in a panic. In her eyes was stark terror, as if the single worst thing that she could imagine was him in agony... And that was when he knew that he still loved her.

The whole time I pretend I have mental telepathy. And with my mind only, I’ll say — or think? — to the target, 'Don’t do it. Don’t go to that job you hate. Do something you love today. Ride a roller coaster. Swim in the ocean naked. Go to the airport and get on the next flight to anywhere just for the fun of it. Maybe stop a spinning globe with your finger and then plan a trip to that very spot; even if it’s in the middle of the ocean you can go by boat. Eat some type of ethnic food you’ve never even heard of. Stop a stranger and ask her to explain her greatest fears and her secret hopes and aspirations in detail and then tell her you care because she is a human being. Sit down on the sidewalk and make pictures with colorful chalk. Close your eyes and try to see the world with your nose—allow smells to be your vision. Catch up on your sleep. Call an old friend you haven’t seen in years. Roll up your pant legs and walk into the sea. See a foreign film. Feed squirrels. Do anything! Something! Because you start a revolution one decision at a time, with each breath you take. Just don’t go back to thatmiserable place you go every day. Show me it’s possible to be an adult and also be happy. Please. This is a free country. You don’t have to keep doing this if you don’t want to. You can do anything you want. Be anyone you want. That’s what they tell us at school, but if you keep getting on that train and going to the place you hate I’m going to start thinking the people at school are liars like the Nazis who told the Jews they were just being relocated to work factories. Don’t do that to us. Tell us the truth. If adulthood is working some death-camp job you hate for the rest of your life, divorcing your secretly criminal husband, being disappointed in your son, being stressed and miserable, and dating a poser and pretending he’s a hero when he’s really a lousy person and anyone can tell that just by shaking his slimy hand — if it doesn’t get any better, I need to know right now. Just tell me. Spare me from some awful fucking fate. Please.

Staying with detractors is like sleeping in a room located just behind the public toilet. You will never feel comfortable until you relocate.

Did you hear that?” the duke asked with a wide grin, turning to Dare. “She said 'papa.'“ The viscount returned the candy dish and tea tray to the relocated end table. “I distinctly heard 'baboon.'“ “Hm, well, you're distinctly deaf.

Do you know what I love most about humans, pet? It’s our utter dogged stupidity. When it comes to love we never learn. Ever. Even when we know the risks. Even when it makes much more sense to relocate to individualized climate-controlled caves, where our hearts have at least a fighting chance at remaining intact. We know the risks of opening our hearts up. And yet we keep doing it anyway. We keep falling in love and having babies and buying shoes that look incredible but feel like death. We keep adopting puppies and making friends and buying white sofas that we know we’re going to drop a slice of pizza facedown on. We just keep doing it. Is it ignorance? Amnesia? Or is it something else? Something braver?

I love that accent you have when you say hello You relocated from New York a month ago That minivan that you drive really gets me going And if it feels like it's right Then it can't be wrong No one understands the chemistry we have And it came out of nowhere Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah It's not like we planned this, it's getting out of hand And now we're gonna go there Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah Walk my way Mrs All American Say my name No need to pretend Don't be shy Mrs All American I'll show you why You're not gonna walk away Yeah Not just a neighbour Oh hey there I'll ring your bell Open your door, pucker up And I'll kiss you well My lips are sealed There's nobody that I would tell Your secret's mine, close your eyes And I'll make you melt No one understands the chemistry we have And it came out of nowhere Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah It's not like we planned this, it's getting out of hand And now we're gonna go there Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah Walk my way Mrs All American Say my name No need to pretend Don't be shy Mrs All American I'll show you why You're not gonna walk away Oh yeah Na na na na na na na na You know what she like Na na na na na na na na You know what she like Na na na na na na na na Ah you know what she like Na na na na na na na Walk my way Mrs All American Say my name No need to pretend Don't be shy Mrs All American I'll show you why You're not gonna walk away (Walk my way) Oh yeah (Say my name) You're not gonna walk away (Don't be shy) (I'll show you why) You're not gonna walk away

I wanted to love the city. There is an electricity to the dullest day here that overpowers its clinging aroma. Friends have moved cityward, rarely seen again, each acting as though they relocated to Shangri-La, despite muggings and struggling.

She had sculpted the mist, the way those who have no choice do. She had willed a life for the two of us in a new land.

A sacred wandering is a wilderness journey. You can find yourself in the midst of life transitions. Major upheavals. A career change. Soul searching. Infertility. Relocation. Illness. Depression. Divorce. Loss of a loved one. Unemployment. Returning to school. The empty nest.

This is sacred space. Libation . . . instead of pouring water on the ground, I pour words on the page. I begin with this libation in honor of all of those unknown and known spirits who surround us. I acknowledge the origins of this land where I am seated while writing this introduction. This land was inhabited by Indigenous people, the very first people to inhabit this land, who lived here for thousands of years before the Europeans arrived and were unfortunately unable to cohabitate without dominating, enslaving, raping, terrorizing, stealing from, relocating, and murder- ing the millions of members of Indigenous nations throughout Turtle Island, which is now known as North America. I write libation to those millions of Indigenous women, men, and children; and those millions of kidnapped and enslaved African women, men, and children whose genocide, confiscated land, centuries of free labor, forced migration, traumatic memories of rape, and sweat, tears, and blood make up the very fiber and foundation of all of the Americas and the Caribbean.

Life down here is kind of a permanent Halloween where you choose a costume more fitting for your self-image than reality could ever offer. Do you want to be a captain or a cowboy? No problem. People will call you by whatever title or name you choose. You say you’re a reincarnated pirate queen or the abandoned love child of a famous entertainer? That’s fine with me. We believe each other’s stories about who we were and who we are. Being an expat means you can have a whole new life. It’s a little like being in the Witness Relocation Program only with flip flops and margaritas.

I’ve learned that even people who are — who see the world differently from you, they love something. And if we take the time to share what we love with one another, we can see each other’s humanity, and we can feel each other’s value. And if we can connect in a real way, that’s what we need to accompany each other, because some of what is going to be asked is that you just let me be. You know. As relocation and all of this stuff happens, some people are going to choose something other than what you would choose. And to accompany them is to just understand what they love, and respect it. So I think let’s take the time to connect through love, and stick with each other as we practice our own liberation, our own liberated stance on this thing, which will not always be the answer we want to hear, but it’ll be someone practicing freedom. And that’s the part we have to respect.

Needless to say he had a newfound respect for that blind vampire. There were very few things iAm hadn’t been able to move in his adult life. He’d changed a tire while acting as his own tire iron. Had been known to walk vats of sauce big as washing machines around a kitchen. Hell, he’d even actually relocated a washer and dryer without thinking much about it. And then he’d had to lift that truck off his brother about two years ago. Another example of Trez’s love life getting out of control. But down in the training center with Wrath? There’d been no budging that fucker. The King had been bulldog-locked on—and the expression on his face? No emotion, not even a grimace of effort. And that body—viciously strong. iAm shook his head as he crossed that apple tree in full bloom. Trying to budge Wrath had been like pulling on a boulder. Nothing moved; nothing gave. That canine had gotten through, though. Thank God. Now, ordinarily, iAm didn’t like animals in the house—and he definitely wasn’t a dog person. They were too big, too dependent, the shedding—too much. But he respected that golden whatever it was now— Meeeeeeeeeeeerowwwwwwwwwwwwww. “Fuck!” Speak of the devil. As the queen’s black cat wound its way around his feet, he was forced to Michael Jackson it over the damn thing so he didn’t step on it. “Damn it, cat!” The feline followed him all the way into the kitchen, always with the in-and-out around the ankles—almost like it knew he’d been thinking benes about the dog and was establishing dominance. Except cats couldn’t read minds, of course. He stopped and glared at the thing. “What the hell do you want.” Not really a question, as he didn’t care to give the feline an opening. One black paw lifted and then . . . Next thing he knew, the g*dd*mn cat was leaping into his arms, rolling over onto its back . . . and purring like a Ferrari. “Are you fucking kidding me,” he muttered. -iAm & Boo

What ensued was a game of Coyote and Roadrunner that dragged on for more than a decade. Sixty letters went back and forth among Beaumont, St. Martin, and various contacts at the American Fur Company who had located St. Martin and tried to broker a return. It was a seller’s market with a fevered buyer. With each new round of communications—St. Martin holding out for more or making excuses, though always politely and with “love to your family”—Beaumont raised his offer: $250 a year, with an additional $50 to relocate the wife and five children (“his live stock,” as Beaumont at one point refers to them). Perhaps a government pension and a piece of land? His final plan was to offer St. Martin $500 a year if he’d leave his family behind, at which point Beaumont planned to unfurl some unspecified trickery: “When I get him alone again into my keeping I will take good care to control him as I please.” But St. Martin—beep, beep!—eluded his grasp. In the end, Beaumont died first. When a colleague, years later, set out to bag the fabled stomach for study and museum display, St. Martin’s survivors sent a cable that must have given pause to the telegraph operator: “Don’t come for autopsy, will be killed.

Then, just as we were to leave on a whirlwind honeymoon in the beautiful Pacific Northwest, a call came from Australia. Steve’s friend John Stainton had word that a big croc had been frequenting areas too close to civilization, and someone had been taking potshots at him. “It’s a big one, Stevo, maybe fourteen or fifteen feet,” John said over the phone. “I hate to catch you right at this moment, but they’re going to kill him unless he gets relocated.” John was one of Australia’s award-winning documentary filmmakers. He and Steve had met in the late 1980s, when Steve would help John shoot commercials that required a zoo animal like a lizard or a turtle. But their friendship did not really take off until 1990, when an Australian beer company hired John to film a tricky shot involving a crocodile. He called Steve. “They want a bloke to toss a coldie to another bloke, but a croc comes out of the water and snatches at it. The guy grabs the beer right in front of the croc’s jaws. You think that’s doable?” “Sure, mate, no problem at all,” Steve said with his usual confidence. “Only one thing, it has to be my hand in front of the croc.” John agreed. He journeyed up to the zoo to film the commercial. It was the first time he had seen Steve on his own turf, and he was impressed. He was even more impressed when the croc shoot went off flawlessly. Monty, the saltwater crocodile, lay partially submerged in his pool. An actor fetched a coldie from the esky and tossed it toward Steve. As Steve’s hand went above Monty’s head, the crocodile lunged upward in a food response. On film it looked like the croc was about to snatch the can--which Steve caught right in front of his jaws. John was extremely impressed. As he left the zoo after completing the commercial shoot, Steve gave him a collection of VHS tapes. Steve had shot the videotapes himself. The raw footage came from Steve simply propping his camera in a tree, or jamming it into the mud, and filming himself single-handedly catching crocs. John watched the tapes when he got home to Brisbane. He told me later that what he saw was unbelievable. “It was three hours of captivating film and I watched it straight through, twice,” John recalled to me. “It was Steve. The camera loved him.” He rang up his contacts in television and explained that he had a hot property. The programmers couldn’t use Steve’s original VHS footage, but one of them had a better idea. He gave John the green light to shoot his own documentary of Steve. That led to John Stainton’s call to Oregon on the eve of our honeymoon. “I know it’s not the best timing, mate,” John said, “but we could take a crew and film a documentary of you rescuing this crocodile.” Steve turned to me. Honeymoon or crocodile? For him, it wasn’t much of a quandary. But what about me?” “Let’s go,” I replied.

We must relocate our glory and reorder our loves. Suffering almost always shows you that some things you thought you couldn’t live without, you can live without if you lean on God. And that brings freedom.

Fill-In-the-Blank Headlines with Examples They Didn't Think I Could ________, but I Did. This headline works well for many reasons, including our natural tendency to root for the underdog. We're fascinated with stories of people who overcome great obstacles and others' ridicule to achieve success. When this headline refers to something you have thought about doing, but talked yourself out of, you'll want to know if the successful person shared your doubt or fear or handicap. Examples: They Laughed When I Sat Down at the Piano — but Not When I Started to Play! They Grinned When the Waiter Spoke to Me in French — but Their Laughter Changed to Amazement at My Reply! Who Else Wants ________? I like this type of headline because of its strong implication that a lot of other people know something the reader doesn't. Examples: Who Else Wants a Hollywood Actress' Figure? Who Else Needs an Extra Hour Every Day? How ________ Made Me ________ This headline introduces a first-person story. People love stories and are remarkably interested in other people. This headline structure seems to work best with dramatic differences. Examples: How a “Fool Stunt” Made Me a Star Salesman. How a Simple Idea Made Me “Plant Manager of the Year.” How Relocating to Tennessee Saved Our Company $1 Million a Year Are You ________? The question headline is used to grab attention by challenging, provoking, or arousing curiosity. Examples: Are You Ashamed of the Smells in Your House? Are You Prepared for the Next Stock Market Crash? How I ________ Very much like How ________ Made Me ________, this headline introduces a first-person story. The strength of the benefit at the end, obviously, controls its success. Examples: How I Raised Myself from Failure to Success in Selling. How I Retired at Age 40 — With a Guaranteed Income for Life.

Oh my,” she whispered. “Love calls me a healer to the nations. I need to go to the nations.” Within a year, she and her family relocated to another country in order to work with marginalized people. If you ask her today who told her to go, she will tell you it was the Holy Spirit. She realized that she had been hearing that voice her entire life; she just didn’t know who it was. Now she does. Now she listens and everything is different.

The primary country of resettlement was the United States, which, at least initially, acted out of responsibility for its allies in the failed wars of Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos. By the end of 1979, roughly 250,000 people from these three countries had been relocated to American cities, with over one million more to come in the following years. As the largest group of refugees ever resettled in the United States, this influx of people changed American policy: it led to the formal framework for accepting a much greater number of refugees from around the world each year; those increased numbers in turn led to xenophobia and a resulting political backlash that continues today. Even then, as the 1970s became the 1980s, Americans’ sympathy for those displaced by the wars in Southeast Asia grew thinner by the year.

I stop being afraid of relocations and I can move wherever I want because I know that I will be loved constantly across all space. And even if it fades with them, it will bloom again. We are all conduits. It moves through us freely.

Concerned about his failing plantation, unhappy about a northern relocation, and uncertain about the fragile new nation, Washington left for New York, the seat of the nation’s capital, with a great deal on his mind. But he was not the only one with concerns about leaving Mount Vernon; there were others who would travel with the president and his family, people who had no choice in the matter. Seven slaves would accompany the Washingtons to New York, including a sixteen-year-old Ona Judge. The fear of the unknown, the separation from loved ones, and the forced relocation must have felt apocalyptic for the bondmen and bondwomen who would travel to New York. Not that the cares and concerns of Mount Vernon’s slaves entered into the mind of the new president.

Due to his determination and skill as a great medicine man and leader, Abiaka was never captured, no matter how hard General Zachary Taylor, the last general who pursued him, tried. Abiaka eventually died in the swamps he loved.[11]

Cosmopolitanism,..., _speaks_ about the urgent need for and the significance of relocating our discourse on,..., the scope and application of rights and justice for every singular human being regardless of the person's birth and belonging.

If you are an outgoing, positive, can-do type of person, I think you'll love calling Charlotte home.

Trump, in a smart move, picked up his media reputation and relocated it from a hypercritical New York to a more value-free Hollywood, becoming the star of his own reality show, The Apprentice, and embracing a theory that would serve him well during his presidential campaign: in flyover country, there is no greater asset than celebrity. To be famous is to be loved—or at least fawned over.

Change, even if it is positive, can be stressful. At times it will feel like everything is fluctuating—friends relocate, jobs come and go, and even values can vary with cultural trends. It can be difficult to make a decision when everything is so unpredictable. However, the one thing you can hold on to when everything else is shifting is God. No matter what happened today—or what may occur tomorrow—he will never stop loving you, and he is always ready to help you.

When after a few days the party relocated to Kazakhstan on an ancient plane chartered by NASA, the mood became even more festive. Jet lag, frigid temperatures that shocked even Canadians and a complete absence of language skills were apparently remedied with wild nights in various Baikonur “hot spots.” When Helene and the kids trooped over from the hotel to see me for the hour or two we were allotted to be together each day, they brought increasingly colorful stories about sensible, hard-working relatives and friends who had, the night before, morphed into vodka-loving party animals with a taste for wearing other people’s bras draped on their heads like berets.

The study of wildlife was a household passion. Bob loved all reptiles, even venomous snakes. Lyn took in the injured and orphaned. They made a great team, and Steve was born directly from their example and teaching. “Whenever we were driving,” Steve told me, “if we saw a kangaroo on the side of the roadway that had been killed by a car, we always stopped.” Mother and son would investigate the dead roo and, if it was female, check its pouch. They rescued dozens, maybe hundreds, of live kangaroo joeys this way, brought them home, and raised them. “We had snakes and goannas mostly, but also orphaned roo joeys, sugar gliders, and possums,” Steve said about these humble beginnings. “We didn’t have enclosures for crocodiles. That came later, after my parents became sick to death of the hatred they saw directed toward crocs.” I soon became aware that as much as Steve loved his parents equally, he got different things from each of them. Bob was his hero, his mentor, the man he wanted to become. Bob’s knowledge of reptile--and especially snake--behavior made him an invaluable resource for academics all over the country. The Queensland Museum wanted to investigate the ways of the secretive fierce snake, and Bob shared their passion. When the administrators of the Queensland Parks and Wildlife Service wanted to relocate problem crocodilians, they called Bob. Meanwhile, Lyn became, in Steve’s words, “the Mother Teresa of animal rescue.” Lyn designed a substitute pouch for orphaned roo and wallaby joeys. She came up with appropriate formulas to feed them too. Lyn created the warm, nurturing environment that made Steve’s dreams, goals, and aspirations real and reachable. Steve was always a boy who loved his mum, and Lyn was the matriarch of the family. While Bob and Steve were fearless around taipans and saltwater crocs, they had the utmost respect for Lyn. She was a pioneering wildlife rehabilitator who set the mark for both Steve and myself. From the very first, I was welcomed into the Irwin family. The greatest thing was that I felt Lyn and Bob loved me not just because I was married to Steve, but for myself, for who I was. That gave me confidence to feel at home as a new arrival to Australia.

I soon became aware that as much as Steve loved his parents equally, he got different things from each of them. Bob was his hero, his mentor, the man he wanted to become. Bob’s knowledge of reptile--and especially snake--behavior made him an invaluable resource for academics all over the country. The Queensland Museum wanted to investigate the ways of the secretive fierce snake, and Bob shared their passion. When the administrators of the Queensland Parks and Wildlife Service wanted to relocate problem crocodilians, they called Bob. Meanwhile, Lyn became, in Steve’s words, “the Mother Teresa of animal rescue.” Lyn designed a substitute pouch for orphaned roo and wallaby joeys. She came up with appropriate formulas to feed them too. Lyn created the warm, nurturing environment that made Steve’s dreams, goals, and aspirations real and reachable. Steve was always a boy who loved his mum, and Lyn was the matriarch of the family. While Bob and Steve were fearless around taipans and saltwater crocs, they had the utmost respect for Lyn. She was a pioneering wildlife rehabilitator who set the mark for both Steve and myself.

I love you so much, angel,” I whispered. “If anyone ever hurts you, I’ll kill them.” And I meant it. At this point it seems important to note that I am not a violent person. True story: I capture flies under plastic cups and relocate them into the wild. So, I quite literally wouldn’t hurt a fly. My soul belongs in an overstuffed teddy bear, but something inside me had changed. I wasn’t just a momma bear; I was a momma grizzly. An Ursus arctos horribilis, y’all. Accent on the horribilis. From the moment you become a parent, your heart moves outside of your body. There is nothing you wouldn’t do, no line you wouldn’t cross, to protect the child that you love. As I held my son and felt that grizzly roar within, I was forced to reckon with the possibility that I had never loved anyone like this before. That before I became a parent, my life was a little bit selfish. Not that I was a jerk or anything. It was simply this: Every decision, until I had children, was made in the interest of me. I was out in the world, living free and wild, taking consequences as they came. But when a child is born, so is a mother. And in her, a grizzly awakens. Her love is maternal, instinctive, and deep. And when necessary, even dangerous. There are certain movies you watch as a kid which inspire you to do stupid

Will We Become Angels? I’m often asked if people, particularly children, become angels when they die. The answer is no. Death is a relocation of the same person from one place to another. The place changes, but the person remains the same. The same person who becomes absent from his or her body becomes present with the Lord (2 Corinthians 5: 8). The person who departs is the one who goes to be with Christ (Philippians 1: 23). Angels are angels. Humans are humans. Angels are beings with their own histories and memories, with distinct identities, reflected in the fact that they have personal names, such as Michael and Gabriel. Under God’s direction, they serve us on Earth (Hebrews 1: 14). Michael the archangel serves under God, and the other angels, in various positions, serve under Michael (Daniel 10: 13; Revelation 12: 7). In Heaven human beings will govern angels (1 Corinthians 6: 2-3). The fact that angels have served us on Earth will make meeting them in Heaven particularly fascinating. They may have been with us from childhood, protecting us, standing by us, doing whatever they could on our behalf (Matthew 18: 10). They may have witnessed virtually every moment of our lives. Besides God himself, no one could know us better. What will it be like not only to have them show us around the intermediate Heaven but also to walk and talk with them on the New Earth? What stories will they tell us, including what really happened that day at the lake thirty-five years ago when we almost drowned? They’ve guarded us, gone to fierce battle for us, served as God’s agents in answer to prayers. How great it will be to get to know these brilliant ancient creatures who’ve lived with God from their creation. We’ll consult them as well as advise them, realizing they too can learn from us, God’s image-bearers. Will an angel who guarded us be placed under our management? If we really believed angels were with us daily, here and now, wouldn’t it motivate us to make wiser choices? Wouldn’t we feel an accountability to holy beings who serve us as God’s representatives? Despite what some popular books say, there’s no biblical basis for trying to make contact with angels now. We’re to ask God, not angels, for wisdom (James 1: 5). As Scripture says and as I portray in my novels Dominion, Lord Foulgrin’s Letters, and The Ishbane Conspiracy, Satan’s servants can “masquerade as servants of righteousness” and bring us messages that appear to be from God but aren’t (2 Corinthians 11: 15). Nevertheless, because Scripture teaches that one or more of God’s angels may be in the room with me now, every once in a while I say “Thank you” out loud. And sometimes I add, “I look forward to meeting you.” I can’t wait to hear their stories. We won’t be angels, but we’ll be with angels—and that’ll be far better. Will We Have Emotions? In Scripture, God is said to enjoy, love, laugh, take delight, and rejoice, as well as be angry, happy, jealous, and glad. Rather than viewing these actions and descriptors as mere anthropomorphisms, we should consider that our emotions are derived from God’s. While we should always avoid creating God in our image, the fact remains we are created in his. Therefore, our emotions are a reflection of and sometimes (because of our sin) a distortion of God’s emotions. To be like God means to have and express emotions. Hence, we should expect that in Heaven

My eyes trail down her body, taking in the way her clothes cling to her in the best kind of way. She’s got curves I’d love to memorize with the tip of my tongue and the brush of my lips. Blood relocates itself to my dick at the mental image of Zahra in my bed, covered by nothing but a silk sheet.

Then the center of influence shifted to London, with the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, Cream, the Who, the Kinks, and all the bands that orbited them. San Francisco, with the Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, and Santana, had its moment in a psychedelic spotlight around the Summer of Love and the Monterey Pop Festival in 1967, but as the 1960s gave way to the '70s, the center of the musical universe shifted unmistakably to Los Angeles. "It was incredibly vital," said Jonathan Taplin, who first came to LA as the tour manager for Bob Dylan and the Band and later relocated there to produce Martin Scorsese's breakthrough movie, Mean Streets. "The nexus of the music business had really moved from New York to Los Angeles. That had been a profound shift . . . It was very clear that something big had changed."'' For a breathtaking few years, the stars aligned to glittering effect in Los Angeles. The city attracted brilliant artists; skilled session musicians; soulful songwriters; shrewd managers, agents, and record executives; and buzz-building clubs. From this dense constellation of talent, a shimmering new sound emerged, a smooth blend of rock and folk with country influences. Talented young people from all over the country began descending on Los Angeles with their guitar cases or dreams of becoming the next Geffen. Irving Azoff, a hyper-ambitious young agent and manager who arrived in Los Angeles in 1972, remembered, "It was like the gold rush. You've never seen anything like it in the entertainment business. The place was exploding. I was here—right place, right time. I tell everybody, `If you're really good in this business, you only have to be right once,' so you kind of make your own luck, but it is luck, too. It was hard to be in LA in that time and have any talent whatsoever in the music business—whether you were a manager, an agent, an artist, a producer, or writer—[and] not to make it, because it was boom times. It was the gold rush, and it was fucking fun.

• buying him clothes to improve his self-image • finding a therapist for him and begging him to go • financing expensive hobbies to help him use his time better • going through disruptive geographic relocations because “he’s not happy here” • giving him half or all of our property and possessions so he won’t feel inferior to us • providing him with a place to live so that he can feel secure

The cruelty of unrequited love isn’t really that we haven’t been loved back, rather that our hopes have been aroused by someone who can never disappoint us, someone whom we will have to keep believing in because we lack the knowledge that would set us free. In a position of longing for a new person when we are constrained within an existing relationship, we must beware too of the ‘incumbent problem’: the vast but often overlooked and unfair advantage that all new people, and also cities and jobs, have over existing – or, as we put it, incumbent – ones. The beautiful person glimpsed briefly in the street, the city visited for a few days, the job we read about in a couple of tantalizing paragraphs in a magazine all tend to seem immediately and definitively superior to our current partner, our long-established home and our committed workplace and can inspire us to sudden and (in retrospect sometimes) regrettable divorces, relocations and resignations. When we spot apparent perfection, we tend to blame our spectacular bad luck for the mediocrity of our lives, without realizing that we are mistaking an asymmetry of knowledge for an asymmetry of quality: we are failing to see that our partner, home and job are not especially awful, but rather that we know them especially well. The corrective to insufficient knowledge is experience. We need to mine the secret reality of other people and places and so learn that, beneath their charms, they will almost invariably be essentially ‘normal’ in nature: that is, no worse yet no better than the incumbents we already understand.

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Rodolphe Salis was a tall, red-headed bohemian with a coppery beard and boundless charisma. He had tried and failed to make a success of several different careers, including painting decorations for a building in Calcutta. But by 1881 he was listless and creatively frustrated, uncertain where his niche might lie. More pressingly, he was desperate to secure a steady income. But then he had the ingenious idea to turn the studio which he rented, a disused post office on the resolutely working-class Boulevard de Rochechouart, into a cabaret with a quirky, artistic bent. He was not the first to attempt such a venture: La Grande Pinte on the Avenue Trudaine had been uniting artists and writers to discuss and give spontaneous performances for several years. But Salis was determined that his initiative would be different – and better. A fortuitous meeting ensured that it was. Poet Émile Goudeau was the founder of the alternative literary group the Hydropathes (‘water-haters’ – meaning that they preferred wine or beer). After meeting Goudeau in the Latin Quarter and attending a few of the group’s gatherings, Salis became convinced that a more deliberate form of entertainment than had been offered at La Grande Pinte would create a venue that was truly innovative – and profitable. The Hydropathe members needed a new meeting place, and so Salis persuaded Goudeau to rally his comrades and convince them to relocate from the Latin Quarter to his new cabaret artistique. They would be able to drink, smoke, talk and showcase their talents and their wit. Targeting an established group like the Hydropathes was a stroke of genius on Salis’s part. Baptising his cabaret Le Chat Noir after the eponymous feline of Edgar Allan Poe’s story, he made certain that his ready-made clientele were not disappointed. Everything about the ambience and the decor reflected Salis’s unconventional, anti-establishment approach, an ethos which the Hydropathes shared. A seemingly elongated room with low ceilings was divided in two by a curtain. The front section was larger and housed a bar for standard customers. But the back part of the room (referred to as ‘L’Institut’) was reserved exclusively for artists. Fiercely proud of his locality, Salis was adamant that he could make Montmartre glorious. ‘What is Montmartre?’ Salis famously asked. ‘Nothing. What should it be? Everything!’ Accordingly, Salis invited artists from the area to decorate the venue. Adolphe Léon Willette painted stained-glass panels for the windows, while Théophile-Alexandre Steinlen created posters. And all around, a disorientating mishmash of antiques and bric-a-brac gave the place a higgledy-piggledy feel. There was Louis XIII furniture, tapestries and armour alongside rusty swords; there were stags’ heads and wooden statues nestled beside coats of arms. It was weird, it was wonderful and it was utterly bizarre – the customers loved it.

He leaned his forehead against hers. “You’re never going to forgive me, are you?” “I forgive you,” she said, fighting the urge to press her lips to his. She meant it. She couldn’t stay mad at him. And even though she didn’t understand, she would do her best not to judge. She was far from perfect herself. Falco exhaled deeply. “That is the best news I have gotten all day,” he said. He leaned back, and his face broke out into a wide smile. “And the second-best news is that my paintings did well at the exhibition. A wealthy artisan from the mainland has offered me work. A lot of work.” “Falco, that’s amazing!” Cass couldn’t resist reaching out to squeeze his hand. “Life-changing,” he said, in a low voice. “Like you. Like us.” Cass opened her mouth to protest, but no words came out. Falco was right. She wouldn’t deny that he had reached deep inside of her and unlocked secret places she had never even known existed. “But the position will mean a lot of travel. Perhaps relocation,” he said. She looked away from him, biting her lip. “You’ll be far away.” Falco nodded. “But I might get to see my family again.” “Your family?” Cass had never even thought to ask Falco about his family, whether he had brothers and sister. “My mother is a washerwoman and my father a cobbler. My brothers all work at the shop. I have a pair of little sisters in a convent in Verona,” he said. “It’s been years since I’ve seen them.” Cass couldn’t imagine what it would be like to grow up in such a large family, with so many built-in companions. “Come away with me, Cassandra,” Falco said, his hands coming to rest lightly on her waist. “I can give you a life now. It may not be quite what you’re used to, but it will be filled with love.

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