Soho House Quotes

We are far from liking London well enough till we like its defects: the dense darkness of much of its winter, the soot on the chimney-pots and everywhere else, the early lamplight, the brown blur of the houses, the splashing of hansoms in Oxford Street or the Strand on December afternoons. There is still something that recalls to me the enchantment of children—the anticipation of Christmas, the delight of a holiday walk—in the way the shop-fronts shine into the fog. It makes each of them seem a little world of light and warmth, and I can still waste time in looking at them with dirty Bloomsbury on one side and dirtier Soho on the other.

In previous eras the servants’ quarters would be fully underground, but the Victorians, being the great social improvers they were, had decided that even the lowly should be able to see the feet of the people walking past the grand houses of their masters—hence the half basement.

Here, one wants to create the Paris of the Far West. Evening traffic on Hollywood Boulevard attempts to mimic Parisian boulevard life. However, life on the Boulevard is extinct before midnight, and the seats in front of the cafes, where in Paris one can watch street life in a leisurely manner, are missing. . . . At night the illuminated portraits of movie stars stare down from lampposts upon crowds dressed in fake European elegance – a declaration that America yearns to be something other than American here. . . . Yet, in spite of the artists, writers and aspiring film stars, the sensibility of a real Montmartre, Soho, or even Greenwich Village, cannot be felt here. The automobile mitigates against such a feeling, and so do the new houses. Hollywood lacks the patina of age.75

Michael J. Bealey was a busy man. His PA had rung to say that drinks at Soho House would no longer work but could I meet him for lunch at twelve thirty? Lunch turned out to be a sandwich and a cup of coffee at a Prêt just around the corner from his flat on the King’s Road, but that was fine by me. I wasn’t sure if Michael would have had enough conversation for a two-course meal. He had always been a man of few words, despite having published millions of them. The “J.” on his business card was important to him, by the way. It was said that he had known both Arthur C. Clarke and Philip K. Dick and had adapted his own name as a sort of tribute to them both. He was well known as an expert on their work and had written long articles that had been published in Constellations (which he had also edited at Gollancz) and Strange Horizons. He was already there when I arrived, scrolling through a typescript on his iPad.

A curious colony of mountaineers has long been enclosed within that small flat London district of Soho.  Swiss watchmakers, Swiss silver-chasers, Swiss jewellers, Swiss importers of Swiss musical boxes and Swiss toys of various kinds, draw close together there.  Swiss professors of music, painting, and languages; Swiss artificers in steady work; Swiss couriers, and other Swiss servants chronically out of place; industrious Swiss laundresses and clear-starchers; mysteriously existing Swiss of both sexes; Swiss creditable and Swiss discreditable; Swiss to be trusted by all means, and Swiss to be trusted by no means; these diverse Swiss particles are attracted to a centre in the district of Soho.  Shabby Swiss eating-houses, coffee-houses, and lodging-houses, Swiss drinks and dishes, Swiss service for Sundays, and Swiss schools for week-days, are all to be found there.  Even the native-born English taverns drive a sort of broken-English trade; announcing in their windows Swiss whets and drams, and sheltering in their bars Swiss skirmishes of love and animosity on most nights in the year.

Waste forces within him, and a desert all around, this man stood still on his way across a silent terrace, and saw for a moment, lying in the wilderness before him, a mirage of honourable ambition, self-denial, and perseverance. In the fair city of this vision, there were airy galleries from which the loves and graces looked upon him, gardens in which the fruits of life hung ripening, waters of Hope that sparkled in his sight. A moment, and it was gone. Climbing to a high chamber in a well of houses, he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed, and its pillow was wet with wasted tears. Sadly, sadly, the sun rose; it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of good abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise, incapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of the blight on him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away. Chapter 6 — Hundreds of People The quiet lodgings of Doctor Manette were in a quiet street-corner not far from Soho-square. On the afternoon of a certain fine Sunday when the waves of four months had roiled over the trial for treason, and carried

Ever since she was a young girl, [Patricia Highsmith] had felt an extraordinary empathy for animals, particularly cats. The creatures, she said, 'provide something for writers that humans cannot: companionship that makes no demands or intrusions, that is as restful and ever-changing as a tranquil sea that barely moves'. Her affection for cats was 'a constant as was feline companionship wherever her domestic situation permitted,' says Kingsley. 'As for animals in general, she saw them as individual personalities often better behaved, and endowed with more dignity and honesty than humans. Cruelty to or neglect of any helpless living creature could turn her incandescent with rage.' Janice Robertson remembers how [...] Highsmith was walking through the streets of Soho when she saw a wounded pigeon lying in the gutter. 'Pat decided there and then that this pigeon should be rescued,' says Janice. 'Although I think Roland persuaded her that it was past saving, she really was distraught. She couldn't bear to see animals hurt.' Bruno Sager, Highsmith's carer at the end of her life, recalls the delicacy with which the writer would take hold of a spider which had crawled into the house, making sure to deposit it safely in her garden. 'For her human beings were strange - she thought she would never understand them - and perhaps that is why she liked cats and snails so much,' he says.

Why wasn’t friendship as good as a relationship? Why wasn’t it even better? It was two people who remained together, day after day, bound not by sex or physical attraction or money or children or property, but only by the shared agreement to keep going, the mutual dedication to a union that could never be codified." "They all—Malcolm with his houses, Willem with his girlfriends, JB with his paints, he with his razors—sought comfort, something that was theirs alone, something to hold off the terrifying largeness, the impossibility, of the world, of the relentlessness of its minutes, its hours, its days." "“Who am I? Who am I?” “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way. You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.” "And who are you?" "I'm Willem Ragnarsson. And I will never let you go.”" "Harold sighs. “Jude,” he says, “there’s not an expiration date on needing help, or needing people. You don’t get to a certain age and it stops." "“You have to tell someone” Ana used to say, and as he had grown older, he had decided to interpret this sentence literally: Some One. Someday, he thought, somehow, he would find a way to tell some one, on person. And then he had, someone he had trusted, and that person had died, and he didn't have the fortitude to tell this story ever again. But then, didn't everyone only tell their lives - truly tell their lives - to one person?" "And so I try to be kind to everything I see, and in everything I see, I see him.

Ivanka Trump joined the show that year to promote the property, playing the role of Trump’s “adviser”—the same amorphous role she now plays in the White House. She pledged to work with that season’s winner, Sean Yazbeck, to manage it.15 But as noted in chapter 2, Trump SoHo appears in significant respects to have been a money-laundering scheme posing as a real estate property. Trump

Here’s an example of the 1/3/1 + 1/3/1 structure from my article, “8 Soft Skills You Need To Work At A High-Growth Startup.” It takes a certain type of personality to want to work at a startup — and the crucial qualities of startup employees you decide to hire. When I was 26 years old, one of my closest friends and I decided we were going to start a company. He was still in the process of finishing his MBA. I had recently taken the leap from my job as a copywriter working in advertising. And every few weeks he would fly to Chicago (where I was based), or I would fly to Atlanta (where he was based), and we’d trade off sleeping on each other’s couches while brainstorming what our first step was going to be. We called it Digital Press. I’ll never forget the day we decided to make our first hire. He was a freelance writer recommended to me by a friend — and we were in the market to start hiring writers and editors (to replace the jobs my co-founder, Drew, and I were performing ourselves). We asked him to meet us at Soho House in Chicago, ordered a bottle of red wine to share, and “interviewed” him by the pool on the roof. He was a fiction writer with a passion for fantasy and sci-fi (not business writing, which was what we needed), and we were young and inexperienced just hoping someone would trust us enough to follow our vision. We hired him — and fired him two months later. The last thing I want to point out here is that you can actually make the 1/3/1 + 1/3/1 structure move even faster by combining the last sentence of the first section, and the first sentence of the second section, into one singular subhead. Here’s how it works: This first sentence is your opener. This second sentence clarifies your opener. This third sentence reinforces the point you’re making with some sort of credibility or amplified description. And this fourth sentence rounds out your argument. This fifth sentence is both your conclusion and the first sentence of your second section. And this sixth sentence clarifies your second opener. This seventh sentence reinforces the new point you’re making—with some sort of credibility or amplified description. And this eighth sentence rounds out the second point of your argument. This ninth sentence is the big conclusion of your introduction.

That night, I met some old college friends at Soho House, a private club in the meatpacking district of Manhattan. I hadn’t seen them since I’d joined the community, and they hardly recognized me. They spent a half hour discussing how awkward and introverted I used to be. Then their conversation turned to work and movies. I tried to contribute, but I had trouble focusing on the words. They just floated into my ear and accumulated there like wax. I felt like I didn’t fit in with them anymore. Fortunately, an Amazonian woman with tree-trunk thighs and a lethal boob-job soon stumbled past the table. She was a foot taller than me and somewhat drunk. “Have

disparity between Louie and Woody is most pronounced. In Woody Allen comedies, the Woody protagonist or surrogate takes it upon himself to tutor the young women in his wayward orbit and furnish their cultural education, telling them which books to read (in Annie Hall’s bookstore scene, Allen’s Alvy wants Annie to occupy her mind with Death and Western Thought and The Denial of Death—“You know, instead of that cat book”), which classic films to imbibe at the revival houses back when Manhattan still had a rich cluster of them. In Crimes and Misdemeanors, it’s a 14-year-old female niece who dresses like a junior-miss version of Annie Hall whom Woody’s Clifford squires to afternoon showings at the finer flea pits, advising her to play deaf for the remaining years of her formal schooling. “Don’t listen to what your teachers tell ya, you know. Don’t pay attention. Just, just see what they look like, and that’s how you’ll know what life is really gonna be like.” A more dubious nugget of avuncular wisdom would be hard to imagine, and it isn’t just the Woody stand-in who does the uncle-daddy-mentor-knows-best bit for the benefit of receptive minds in ripe containers. In Hannah and Her Sisters, Max von Sydow’s dour painter-philosophe Frederick is the Old World “mansplainer” of all time, holding court in a SoHo loft which he shares with his lover, Lee, played by Barbara Hershey, whose sweaters abound with abundance. When Lee groans with enough-already exasperation when Frederick begins droning on about an Auschwitz documentary—“You missed a very dull TV show on Auschwitz.

A vision of the little house in Soho flickered across his mind’s eye, his mother at a desk, writing in her journal, with hazy sunlight streaming through the morning windows. The woman inhabited a world he had once thought his own – a world of publishers and reliable suppliers. A London that was confident and competent amid its grey, puddle-strewn streets.

Of the Russian exiles, Lenin is the last I should have picked as a man of destiny. [Angelica] Balabanoff says that she cannot remember where she first met Lenin and that even when she became conscious of his existence he made no impression upon her. Many others would say the same, but I remember vividly my first meeting with him. It was at dinner in a small Greek restaurant in Soho, not far from the house which bears the tablet commemorating the fact that Karl Marx once lived there. I met him again at Stuttgart, [at the International Socialist Congress] in 1907. In the meantime he had acquired the reputation of being a brilliant student of Marxian economics, a dangerous antagonist in all intra-party controversies and a master of revolutionary tactics and sectarian conspiracies. At the conference he was usually surrounded by a small group of whispering disciples. … Some of Lenin's enemies believed that he was a paid emissary of the Russian police. His tactics and the dissensions which he promoted among the Russian socialists aroused suspicion. He was a fanatic, a disorganizer, a sectarian, who gave no indication in pre-war days of having the qualities of a national leader. He won his battles but they were always directed against his comrades.

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even today, when I have a cold, it is the worst cold in the history of the house.

Why wasn’t friendship as good as a relationship? Why wasn’t it even better? It was two people who remained together, day after day, bound not by sex or physical attraction or money or children or property, but only by the shared agreement to keep going, the mutual dedication to a union that could never be codified." "They all—Malcolm with his houses, Willem with his girlfriends, JB with his paints, he with his razors—sought comfort, something that was theirs alone, something to hold off the terrifying largeness, the impossibility, of the world, of the relentlessness of its minutes, its hours, its days." "“Who am I? Who am I?” “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way. You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.” "And who are you?" "I'm Willem Ragnarsson. And I will never let you go.”" "Harold sighs. “Jude,” he says, “there’s not an expiration date on needing help, or needing people. You don’t get to a certain age and it stops." "And so I try to be kind to everything I see, and in everything I see, I see him.

Snow was a storyteller as well as a scientist, so he deployed anecdotes to put faces to his number in the hope of persuading his medical colleagues of cholera’s waterborne spread. There was a woman, “the widow of a percussion-cap maker,” who had moved from Soho to the West End some months earlier but had not lost her taste for Broad Street’s water. She had arranged for bottles of it to be brought to her by cart. There was a delivery on August 31. She drank from it then and the next day, and she shared it with a niece who lived in Islington, another district still untouched by cholera. Both died. Seven workmen making dentists’ materials at numbers 8 and 9 Broad Street were “in the habit of drinking water from the pump, generally drinking about half-a-pint once or twice a day.” Cholera killed them all—but two people who lived in the same building who did not draw their water from the pump experienced only bouts of diarrhea. Both lived. A factory at 37 Broad Street provided its workers with barrels of pump water and lost eighteen out of a staff of two hundred. A brewery down the road gave its seventy men malt liquor; no one drank water; none fell ill. Tellingly, the Broad Street outbreak did not single out the abject poor. Rather, Snow wrote, “the mortality appears to have fallen pretty equally amongst all classes, in proportion to their numbers.” He concluded that “out of rather more than six hundred deaths, there were about one hundred in the families of tradesmen and other resident house holders.” The most wretched people in the parish, those locked in the workhouse, were almost entirely spared. That building was bordered on three sides by streets in which the outbreak raged, but lost only 5 of its 535 inmates; if it had seen the same mortality as those richer households, Snow wrote, “upwards of one hundred persons would have died.” What had saved them? The workhouse had its own pump, “and the inmates never sent to Broad Street for water.” This was a refutation of the argument that disease explicitly targeted the poor, either as punishment for their ineradicable sins or because their poverty exposed them to miasmas those above them avoided. Snow kept going, seeking out the details of death after death, and those of seemingly anomalous survivals. He finished his review of the first week’s deaths in just four days, delivering his results to parish authorities on Thursday, September 7. The next morning the parish took perhaps the most famous single action in the history of public health: it ordered that the handle from the Broad Street pump be removed. If Snow was right, the poison that had ruined the district would be cut off at its source, and the epidemic would end. It did.

pencil, a stone. You punch someone hard in the face and likely you’ll break a finger or two. Use your notebook, a shoe, a lamp.’ ‘I see . . .’ ‘Rule three. Retaliate first. You think someone’s going to aggress you. Aggress him first. You can always apologize afterwards, if you’re wrong.’ ‘Isn’t that a bit—’ ‘And rule four. Watch out for pretenders. Your man goes down – he seems out of it – kick him hard in the ribs. Several times. Break a few ribs.’ He paused, reflectively. ‘I remember my old colour sergeant. Italy 1944. He said to us: you see a dead body – a dead enemy – put a round in it. Every time. Routine. If he’s dead – no matter. If he’s pretending – then you’ve got him.’ Begg rubbed his face. ‘It was very good advice.’ He smiled suddenly, beaming. ‘So-ho, are youse getting the message, Mr Dax?’ ‘Absolutely.’ ‘Recite me Patrick Begg’s four rules of self-defence.’ ‘Ah. Let’s see. One: everything is a potential weapon. Two: don’t use your hands. Three: retaliate first. And four: watch out for pretenders.’ ‘Ready for action, Mr Dax. Quick learner.’ Gabriel stood on the gravelled sweep in front of the house waiting for his taxi. He felt exhausted after his brief period of instruction with Begg. There had been a few more moves and blows illustrated and explained regarding the near-lethal use of house keys, notebook and wallet, then Begg had made him a cup of tea in a little kitchen off the gym area and told him more adventures of his torrid time in Italy in ’44. ‘I’ve killed a lot of people, Mr

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Best 7 Sites to Buy Old Gmail Accounts in Bulk (PVA & Aged) – Los Angeles Telegram: helpdigitalshopusa WhatsApp: +1 (929) 688-3343 In Los Angeles, perception is reality. From a sleek startup in a Santa Monica tech hub to a burgeoning influencer empire in a Hollywood Hills studio, your digital footprint is your storefront. But in a city that worships speed and scale, how do you build credibility when Google’s algorithms are designed to be skeptical of rapid growth? The answer, for savvy operators, lies in a strategic acquisition: buying old Gmail accounts in bulk. This isn’t about finding a shady loophole. It’s about understanding that in the digital realm, time is the one commodity you can’t easily create. An aged Gmail account isn’t just an email address; it’s a digital asset with a history. It’s an entity that has passively existed through Google’s ever-tightening security updates, appearing as a settled resident rather than a suspicious newcomer. For an L.A.-based business—whether you’re in e-commerce, digital marketing, entertainment, or real estate—this distinction is everything. It’s the difference between your campaign landing in the inbox or the spam folder, between your social media profile looking established or like a fly-by-night operation. Here is the curated playbook on the best sites to secure these assets, framed for the specific needs of the Los Angeles market. The Los Angeles Digital Landscape: Why Aged Accounts are a Non-Negotiable Before we dive into the vendors, understand the "why." L.A. is a global hub. Your competition isn't just the company down the street; it's rivals in New York, London, and Singapore. You need every advantage. ● Inbox Authority (The Beverly Hills Address for Your Emails): A new Gmail account sending bulk emails is like a pop-up shop on Rodeo Drive—it gets flagged immediately. An account from 2017 has the digital equivalent of an established storefront, granting higher deliverability from day one. ● Social Proof & Verification (The Hollywood Backstage Pass): Linking a new YouTube channel, TikTok profile, or business listing to a fresh Gmail account is a red flag. Platforms see this as high-risk. An aged account acts as a trusted anchor, lending its history to your new venture and helping you bypass arduous verification loops. ● Bypassing Arbitrary Limits (The FastPass for Digital Operations): New accounts have stringent limits on everything from Google Drive storage to the number of emails you can send per day. Aged accounts have higher, more relaxed thresholds, allowing you to operate at the scale L.A. demands. With the strategy clear, let's examine the top-tier sites for procurement. The Top 7 Sites for the Discerning L.A. Buyer This list prioritizes reliability, quality, and a level of professionalism that aligns with a serious business operation. 1. (The Bespoke Tailor of Accounts) Think of this vendor as the analog of a custom suit shop on Melrose Place. They don’t deal in high-volume, low-quality goods. They specialize in meticulously curated, old Gmail accounts with verifiable creation dates (often 3+ years). ● The L.A. Angle: Perfect for the studio or agency that cannot afford a security flag. You’re paying for a clean, documented history. These accounts are your "executive" accounts for anchoring high-value assets. ● Best For: High-stakes applications where failure is not an option. 2. BlackHatWorld Marketplace (The Industry Insider's Forum) BHW is the equivalent of the private industry mixers held at Soho House or the Nice Guy. It’s not a store, but a vetted community where established sellers build legendary reputations over years. ● The L.A. Angle: This is where you find the "fixer"—the trusted source everyone in the know uses. You must do your homework, read feedback threads, and