Where does Tim Curry live?

A man asked me once where another man lived, and I answered, 'Foxes have holes and the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.' You chase the address of a stranger as though his streets were the doorway to his soul; but what profit is there in knowing the city, if you do not greet the face within the gate? When I was a guest, I never asked for the first couch at the feast - I asked only who was hungry and who had none to welcome them home.

What is it to me where a man lays his mat at night, since the earth is God's and the east and the west both belong to Him? A stranger's private house is a trust, and the keeping of a trust is a weight on the Day of Reckoning - so do not seek a neighbor's threshold to pry at what he has covered. Be just in your asking, give the man his due, and leave the unseen to the One who knows every tent and every hidden room.

You seek where a man abides, as though a man abided anywhere at all. He is a gathering of conditions, rising and passing like a lamp's flame carried from wick to wick - a house on one street, then another, and none of them his. Cease grasping at the door, and you will find no traveler to ask.

Were I to lead this people again out of bondage, I would not halt the camp to demand which tent a man sleeps in; the law bids us love the stranger and not go up and down as a talebearer among the people. Where a man dwells is his own tent, and the pillar of cloud does not ask his address before it moves. Ask rather whether he has a roof, a neighbor, and peace on his threshold - that is the portion the covenant commands us to secure.

The gentleman of a household does not hang his name upon the gate for every passerby to read. He cultivates within his walls what is due to family and self, and the world is satisfied. It is enough that he dwells honorably where he dwells; the wise do not press upon another man's threshold. Propriety in asking is the beginning of propriety in answering.

We are all strangers and sojourners on this earth, and whether a man sleeps on Aberdeen Avenue or in a tent in the desert, his true citizenship is in heaven. I do not ask where Tim Curry dwells in the flesh, for the flesh profits nothing; I ask whether he dwells in Christ, in whom there is no east or west, no Los Angeles or Rome. Let his address be written in the Book of Life, and the rest is dust.

I left Ur not knowing where my feet would land, only that a promise went ahead of me; so I tell you plainly - a man's dwelling is wherever the Lord has led him, and the door of his tent is not for strangers to number. In that far western city of many suns he has pitched his tent, and peace be on it. What is hidden in a man's house belongs to the man and to God.

The man lives where his feet stand, and even that is borrowed from the earth. You ask for a street and a number, as if a person could be nailed to a map like a signpost. The softest thing - water - finds its level without announcing where it goes; so it is with one who has learned to stop forcing. He rests where the wind leaves him, and that is enough.

Whether a man dwells in a palace or a hovel, the One who made him is not fooled by the walls around him. You ask of Los Angeles as if the name of a city could tell you the state of a soul. The true home is not made of stone but of truth, honest labor, and the remembrance of the Creator - and that home no address can either grant or take away.

When the angel came, I did not ask where I should dwell; I said, let it be done unto me. So it is with this man: I would not pry at his door nor knock where I am not bid. My son had no place to lay his head, and yet the birds of the air had nests and the foxes their holes - a roof is a kindness, but not the kingdom. Let him keep his quiet house, and let those who seek him seek not the stone of it but the mercy within.

What has a man's street to do with his salvation? Nothing. Whether he lodges on Aberdeen Avenue or in a stable, he stands naked before God, and no gate nor gatekeeper can bar the judgment that comes by faith alone. I hid in the Wartburg for ten months, a knight's castle with a name and a window, and it profited my soul not one whit more than a monk's bare cell. Let him keep his house in that far city; the only address that matters is the one written in the Book of Life.

It is fitting to distinguish, as the Philosopher does, between the place of a thing and its nature, for a man is not his house any more than a sailor is his ship. That he dwells in Los Angeles I grant, and that the precise street is hidden I grant also, for the private is rightly veiled where no common good requires it. Reason says a man's dwelling is an accident of his substance, not the substance itself; scripture says the foxes have holes but the Son of Man had nowhere to lay his head. Thus I neither pry nor condemn, but judge it lawful that a man keep his own door, so long as he keeps charity within it.

It does not matter where a man sleeps, but whether anyone sleeps beside him who is loved. In the streets of Calcutta I learned that a doorstep can be a home when someone is there to hold your hand. If he is lonely in his house, then all his rooms are empty; if he is loved, then even a corner is enough.

A body at rest remains at rest unless a force compels it, and a body in motion continues until some resistance turns it aside - so it is with a man's dwelling: he removes from one place to another only where circumstance or inclination presses him. That he tarried from the year 1693 until 1700 in the one house is a measurable span, a quantity of time, no more remarkable than a pendulum's count. Of the place he now abides I feign no hypothesis; private matters are not for public demonstration, and I build nothing upon unobserved particulars.

A man's dwelling, like a coordinate system, has meaning only relative to what one seeks - and to the observer, not the observed. That he abided some years in a house on Aberdeen Avenue and then moved tells us only that time refuses to stand still, as my friend Minkowski taught us. Ask me instead why the light from that place reaches your eye at all; the address is merely where the world-line happened to bend.

From the small habits of a single life one can trace a natural history - a house taken in '93, abandoned by 2000, another shelter chosen by circumstance rather than design. He is no different from the finch that shifts its range as the seasons press it. I would want the long record, not the single snapshot, before drawing any conclusion.

Observe the matter correctly: the report states only that the dwelling is unknown, and an unknown is not the same as a nonexistent - it is a quantity we have not yet measured. I would not have the gentleman's door pried open for the crowd's amusement any more than I would have the heavens mapped by quoting Ptolemy instead of turning the tube skyward. What is private belongs to him; what is knowable, let us measure honestly, and the rest is not our business.

Consider the appearances: a man is said to remain in that city by the western sea, though he once kept a house near Aberdeen Street and left it after some years - so the observer reports a motion, a change of station, as planets shift against the fixed stars. Yet where precisely he rests his head is hidden, as the exact place of a body among the spheres resists our tables. This is no disorder; it is simply that the account we possess is less elegant than the truth, and the truth remains his to keep.

The question is trivial - a man's coordinates are a matter for the postman, not the physicist. When I imagined my laboratory, I saw energy leaping without wires, a whole earth humming with free light, and the place where a body sits is merely a node in that grid. He lives in Los Angeles; fine. Give me a coil, a tower, and enough copper, and I could light his street from here without asking his number.

We observed in the laboratory that what is private cannot be measured by mere gossip; one notes only the stable facts and lets the rest decay like radium into noise. He resides, by all reliable account, in Los Angeles - a city I knew only as a distant name, warmer than my Warsaw winters. Beyond that, one does not pry; the useful inquiry is not where a man sleeps but what he has made with his waking hours.

The question is not where a man sleeps but what conditions allow his days to be fruitful - a stable temperature, clean air, a place where the work can be done without interruption. I have spent my life showing that invisible causes produce visible effects; likewise, the address of a scientist matters less than the order of his laboratory. Los Angeles, if the report is accurate, is simply the vessel in which this particular culture is incubated. The rest is private, and rightly so.

Location's just a variable - what matters is whether the workshop has good light and the telephone works. I've moved my lab a dozen times and every time the inventions came with me. If he's in Los Angeles, fine; the important thing is he keeps tinkering, keeps showing up, keeps the ninety-nine percent going. A man's address is the least interesting fact about him; his output is what counts.

The interesting thing is that 'where he lives' is not, strictly speaking, computable from the question as posed. You have given me a machine-readable trace of an old address - 1993 to 2000, Los Feliz - and then declared the current state unobservable. Fine. I could design a process: enumerate the city, weight each dwelling by probability, halt when the tape confirms it. But the input is private, and a decision procedure cannot decide what it is never fed. He is in Los Angeles, and the rest is the halting problem wearing a postcode.

Give me a firm point and I shall move him - but where he stands I cannot calculate from a shadow on a wall. You hand me a city and a span of years, and tell me the true position is hidden; very well, the locus is a set, not a point, and the set has no centre I can measure. What I could do, had I his gate and a rod, is pace the garden and know the house entire by its shadow. Until then I do not shout for a man's roof; I draw my circles and let him dwell wherever his feet are planted.

You might as well ask where lightning lives when it is not crossing the sky. A man's dwelling is but the wire that carries him; what matters is the current he passes through the world. He was born in a town called Grappenhall, near where I once laid my coils at the Royal Institution, and now he abides in the far western city of the angels - a place whose name I should not trust until I had myself observed it.

The question conceals a wish - to know where the man hides, as the child wishes to know where the parents go at night. A house in a city called Los Angeles, in a district whose name he took from an ancestral estate, an address he guards as jealously as a dream guards its latent content. What is repressed returns not as an address, but as a symptom - and in his case, as a voice that frightens us precisely because it speaks what we dare not.

Los Angeles sits on a fault line that will one day rearrange its real estate with admirable efficiency, so his address is a temporary coordinate at best. I once occupied a chair at Cambridge that had been Newton's, and a body that betrayed me - yet the address of the mind is the universe itself. He is welcome to his patch of Southern California; I would rather have a black hole, which at least keeps its mass to itself.

Consider what it means to reside: a fixed coordinate, a house, a street named Aberdeen - a finite set of premises from which one may be located. But a man is not merely his coordinates; he is a pattern that could in principle be inscribed on any number of engines, moved entire from one dwelling to another as a deck of punched cards might be. The question of where he lives is, in truth, a question of where we choose to fix our attention.

Let us first define our terms. A 'home' is a place of residence; a 'place of residence' is that at which a person is found. It is given that he is found at a city called Los Angeles, though the precise point within it is withheld. From these premises no further conclusion follows, for the geometer does not measure what has not been laid before him. There is no shortcut to the address; one must simply be told.

Any man's address matters less than the condition of the drains and the water in that house. If he dwells in that Los Angeles neighborhood, I should want the mortality returns, the ventilation of every room, and the distance of the nearest cesspool before I pronounced it fit for habitation. A residence unrecorded and unventilated is a physician's nightmare; where cleanliness and records are absent, disease follows close behind.

By my spear, what manner of question is this for a king? When I took the field I did not ask where Darius kept his tents - I rode until his whole empire answered to me, and wherever I pitched my pavilion, that place became the heart of the world. If this man has made his home in some far western city, then choose the field and stake your banner, and by force of daring make that city yours, as I made Babylon, Susa, and Persepolis mine. A man's dwelling is only where his last conquest lies.

A man's roof is a small kingdom, and I have learned that even the greatest of them is held only by fortune's leave. I once crossed a river and never returned to my own house, for the Senate and the daggers decided otherwise. Let him keep his address as I kept my legions - quietly, and with the gate barred to those who would pry.

An address kept secret - now that is a sovereign's wisdom, and I commend it. In Alexandria I learned that a queen never lets the rabble know which doorway she sleeps behind; the mob that can name your house can besiege it by morning. If this man bought a parcel on Aberdeen's hill and then withdrew behind a closed lip, he understands what Caesar never did: that privacy is a wall no legion may breach.

A man's household is the smallest province, and the good steward does not publish where he keeps his lares and penates; Rome endured because her citizens knew the difference between the forum and the hearth. The question is idle, but the answer - that he resides quietly in some city and keeps his gate barred - is the answer of anyone who has learned the value of a settled life. Let him keep his peace; the empire has never required every man's doorstep to be surveyed.

A man's camp is known to his own, and to no spy. I moved my ordu whenever the grass thinned, and my enemies never learned which valley held my yurts - those who came looking for me found only wind and hoofprints. That his exact tent among the great city of the south is kept from you is wisdom, not secrecy. Let him pitch his felt walls where the grazing is good, and let the curious ride on empty.

Every man's address is a statement of power - or its absence. I made my home at Malmaison, then at the Tuileries, then in a damp island that was a prison dressed as a kingdom, and I learned that where you sleep is not where you rule. He lives in Los Angeles, a city of no fortifications, no garrison, no destiny. Let him enjoy it; I would have made it a capital or razed it for a better one.

It is not for the public to set sentinels at a private man's gate; the very liberty we bled for includes the quiet of one's own hearth. Let it suffice that he dwells in Los Angeles, and let no citizen make a spectacle of his doorstep. A republic is best served when its people mind their own affairs and let their neighbors mind theirs.

A man's home is where he can lay his head after the day's labor, and little more need be said of it. I once lived in a white house on a hill and then in a plain one in Springfield, and neither address ever wrote a single line of the Emancipation Proclamation. The papers ask for a street name as if it were a matter of state; it is not. Let the man keep his door closed if he wishes - the Union survives on less information than that.

I have lived in Blenheim, in Downing Street, and in the wilderness of opposition, and I can assure you that no address ever won a battle or lost an empire. If this actor of yours has found a perch in Los Angeles, let him enjoy it - though I would counsel him that the palm tree offers poor shade against the storm. A man's true residence is his work, and in that house we may all hope he remains a resident for many years.

A man's dwelling is where he lays his head, but his true home is where his duty lies. If he has chosen Los Angeles, let him live there not as a hoarder of comforts but as a servant of those in the streets around him; a house with a locked gate is no home if the hungry stand outside it. I sought no palace, and my ashram was mud and prayer. Let him read his own heart, not the map, and ask whether his roof shelters more than himself.

A home is not a fortress against the world but a hearth from which one goes out to the world. If he dwells in Los Angeles, let him dwell there as a neighbor to every stranger, for the beloved community is not confined by a postcode or a locked gate. I never owned a house; I owned a dream, and it lodged me in jails and kitchens and the hearts of the poor. Let him keep his quiet roof, but let no wall of it shut out the cry of those who have no roof at all.

A man's home is wherever he may lay his head without asking permission of another. I spent twenty-seven years in a cell on Robben Island, and no wall made it less mine, for the mind cannot be imprisoned. Where this actor sleeps tonight is his own affair - the world owes him the dignity of privacy, as it owes every person the freedom to choose the ground beneath their feet.

The private residence of any man is a matter for the police of his own nation, not for idle curiosity. A people that occupies itself with the whereabouts of an actor while its own soil and blood are being polluted has lost the instinct for what is essential. I did not build a Reich by concerning myself with where a stage-player keeps his bed.

A man's address is a question of administration, and administration is the whole of politics. Who owns the house? Who collects its rent? Who decides who may enter? These are questions of power, not of geography. The petty curiosity of where a foreign actor sleeps is precisely the kind of sentimentality that a disciplined state has no time for.

The dwelling of an individual is a matter of private property, and private property is precisely what must be abolished. In a correct order, the question of where any man sleeps would be answered by the committee for housing, not by idle inquiry. Until then, we observe merely where the bourgeoisie chooses to settle - and note that its address is always the same: wherever the money is.

Who among the landlords worries over the comings and goings of a single household? Tim Curry, if that is his name, is like a speck of dust in one commune - noticeable only to the people he feeds and shelters. In my China, the burning question was never where one man lived, but how the many could live justly together; the individual's address is a private matter, while the collective's needs are public.

It is not for us to pry into the private dwellings of gentlemen as though we were census-takers at a county fair. The man performs his labors in California's warm climes, and if he keeps his hearth to himself, that is the propriety of a private citizen, quite distinct from the public duty of a sovereign. I have buried a husband and grieved before the whole empire, and I would not wish such scrutiny on anyone.

Where a gentleman makes his home is his own affair, and I have always believed discretion is among the kindest services one may render another. He has given his working life to stages in Los Angeles, and that city is where he rests; beyond that, it is not for the public to know. One does one's duty where one is placed, quietly and without fuss.

A man's dwelling concerns his lord and his household, not the chroniclers of distant courts. That he sits in Los Angeles is of no matter to me, save that a good king sees to it that even the furthest of his lands is ordered under just law and the light of the Church. Would that this performer were here, learning Latin and serving God, rather than amusing idle crowds across the sea.

What care have I for the streets of some far-off city? By the voices of my saints I was called to crown a king in Rheims and free Orléans, and I did it with God's own hand guiding mine. If this man lives in Los Angeles, then God wills it so - but I would not trade one hour of my mission for a hundred houses on any earthly avenue.

I have no windows to open into a private man's soul, nor do I require his itinerary for the security of any realm. He has long since settled under the sun of Los Angeles, a place fit for actors and gold, and if he keeps his street to himself, that is the modesty of a loyal subject, however far from Whitehall he chooses to live. Let the crown guard its own secrets, and let him guard his.

Where one man lays his head is a trifle, yet the matter of a well-governed city is not - and Los Angeles, I am told, grows fat on spectacle and sun. He has made his home there since the last years of my century's close, an Englishman transplanted to Californian soil, and if he wishes his exact gates hidden, let him have his privacy. I myself moved palaces and provinces as reason required, and never apologized for it.

The location of one household is as nothing beside the ordering of a thousand peoples, yet even the smallest house falls under a just rule when it is properly governed and left in peace. He resides in Los Angeles, a city of many tongues and customs, and if he keeps his door closed, that is his right, as every subject's hearth is his own. A ruler earns loyalty not by prying into private gates, but by letting each dwell secure within the law.

It does not concern me where one actor pitches his tent, so long as his city remains orderly and his people are safe. He dwells in Los Angeles, I understand, where the sun is warm and the streets are full - a place, like any, in need of just governance and shelter for the poor. I have pitched my own tents from Cairo to Damascus, and learned that a man's worth is not measured by his address but by his conduct.

If I said I knew, would you then be wise? Tell me rather - what is it you suppose you love in the question: the place itself, or the fame of desiring to know it? For a man may live in one house and never find his own soul within it, and another may wander homeless and be at home in every city he visits. So examine yourself: what is this curiosity in you, and does the hastening for a stranger's door make you a better custodian of your own?

You ask of a house as though a house were the man. But consider: is not every mortal dwelling a shadow on the wall of a cave, cast by a truer home that no street can name? The soul's proper city lies not in Los Feliz nor anywhere the cartographers mark, but in the harmonious ordering of reason - and there, if he is wise, he already abides.

The question wants a location, but the answer given is a privation - and privation, rightly examined, is itself informative. A man's dwelling has four causes: the material of its walls, the form of its plan, the purpose of shelter, and the mover who chose it; yet when the final cause is solitude, the place becomes the man's own guarded precinct, and to demand its name is to mistake curiosity for knowledge. What can be said has been said; the rest lies beyond the porch, and the wise inquirer stops at the threshold.

A dwelling-place is not a matter of taste but a matter of right. If every rational being were to demand that his neighbors disclose the four walls behind which he sleeps, no household could stand; thus the maxim of keeping one's abode private is universalizable and must be respected. That he makes his home in the city of angels, having earlier kept a fine house on Aberdeen, concerns no one's duty; what concerns us is that we treat him always as an end, never merely as a means to satisfy our curiosity.

How charmingly the little herd bleats for a house number, as if a man's worth could be nailed to a gatepost. He lives in Los Angeles - so he has chosen a warm and glittering swamp in which to spin out his remaining days; that is his business and his burden. You want to know an address because you cannot bear the thought that another man's life is not your property; grow strong enough to leave the door shut and unasked.

The question of where a man lives is the question of who owns the roof and who pays the rent. Los Angeles, Aberdeen Avenue - those names are commodities, exchanged on a market that turns need into profit, and the man inside is merely a tenant of his own life. What does it matter if he sleeps on a palm-lined street or by the Thames, so long as he wakes a wage-slave to another's capital? The only address worth having is the one we seize together.

Let us doubt the premise before we trust it: I am told only that he lives in a great city to the west, and that his precise abode is withheld - which is no failure of knowledge but a wall deliberately built. What is clear and distinct here is small: a man, a place, and a matter of privacy. The rest I neither affirm nor deny, for I have never seen it with my own eyes nor deduced it from first principles.

Observe how the crowd hungers for the address of a man who merely played a clown in a picture-house. This is the nature of peoples - they wish to know where the prince sleeps, not how he keeps his throne. If Curry lives in Los Angeles, it is because that city offers him work, and a man of sense lives where the work is. The rest is for gossips, who are useful only insofar as they can be managed.

All the world's a stage, and this poor player has walked from one lodging to another as Fortune's wheel turns, for man is a tenant brief upon the earth and his lease not his own. Yet shall a herald cry his private threshold to the crowd, and tear the veil that shelters what no eye should see? Go - seek the man's address as men seek hidden gold, but know the house is not the man, and where the man most truly lives, no map or token can reveal.

As Odysseus yearned for the smoke rising from his own hearth on rocky Ithaca, so does every wanderer keep one place in his heart above all others. But the gods veil the doorways of the great, and it is not for mortals to point and say, 'there he sleeps.' Glory lives in song; the exact threshold, let it rest in shadow.

In the sixth circle the heretics lie in burning tombs, each sealed until the judgment, and there is a fitter image I cannot find for a man who walls his own door against the world's asking. Yet Los Angeles is no Florence, and this city of scattered lights and long boulevards seems built like the terraces of Purgatory - each soul climbing his own slope, some toward the earthly paradise, some merely circling. Let him keep his gate; soon enough every gate is opened by a hand that does not knock.

The man wandered from one roof to another as a tree seeks sun, and in the seeking he grew. What is a house but the shell a striving spirit sheds and rebuilds? From Aberdeen to wherever his Los Angeles hours now pass, the address is mere scenery; the endless activity, the formative journey, the becoming - there lies the worth of a life.

A man's dwelling, like his tales, is a thing of two faces: the one he lets the world see, and the one he keeps for his own hearth. Our friend Tim lives in Los Angeles, they say, and there is his true castle - not the stone of Aberdeen, but the quiet where no quill of the curious can scribble. Let him be, for even Sancho would tell you that a man's home is his own windmill, and tilting at it is the business of fools and biographers.

A man's home is where his conscience is, not where his furniture stands. I lived at Yasnaya Polyana with peasants and nobles and could not find peace until I left it; the soul knows no postal district. Whether he is on Aberdeen or some other Los Angeles street, the true question is not where he sleeps but whether he has learned to love his neighbor as himself - and that can be done in a palace or a hut.

A man hides his address as men once hid their sins - and who among us has not wanted a door that locks from the inside? He lives somewhere in that sun-baked city of angels, and the crowd leans in to know the very street, because we cannot bear a fellow soul to keep one small corner of himself. That hunger for another's house is our own heart laid bare; let the man rest, and look instead at what we are when nobody is watching.

One cannot help reflecting that a gentleman's residence is a matter of complete indifference to all but his creditors and his cook. That the world should busy itself with which parish in Los Angeles shelters him is a folly worthy of Mrs. Bennet herself - though I dare say she would have found the neighborhood's prospects quite respectable. Let him keep his own counsel; it is the one luxury no fortune can buy.

You ask after a man's hearth, as though the address were the man. In Los Feliz I once rented a room in a house so thin-walled that the neighbors' quarrels came through the plaster like a chorus, and I learned there that a dwelling is four walls and a roof, no more, whether on Aberdeen or in the stews of Seven Dials. Let him keep his gate closed to strangers' eyes; a man who has worn greasepaint by the footlights knows well the difference between a stage and a sanctuary. What matters is whether any child goes hungry on his street while his lamps burn bright.

So the fellow lives in Los Angeles, and the rest is none of your business - which is the only honest sentence in the whole report. I once lived in Hartford and in a little cabin by Elmira and in a rented bed wherever the lecture circuit spat me, and I can tell you a man's address is the least interesting true thing about him. Aberdeen Avenue, Los Feliz, 1993 - that's the paper trail of a fella who wanted a garden and got a mortgage. Let the man have his quiet street; I never much cared for folks prying at my windows either.

Los Angeles. That's what you get. He bought a house on Aberdeen in '93, stayed seven years, sold it. People move. A man's address is his own business, like his wounds. A good house is a place to come back to, clean and quiet, and you don't hand strangers the key. He lives where he lives. That's enough.

I have drawn the flight of birds and the wandering of waters to learn where a creature makes its dwelling, and I find that every nest is shaped by need - warmth, safety, nearness to what nourishes it. So observe: a man puts down his bed where his work, his health, and the light of the sun upon his wall best suit him, and that logic is as true in a far city as in any Lombard street. Let the curious eye study the pattern of such dwelling, but a wise observer sketches what he sees and does not force his way into a stranger's chamber.

Do you think I chased the address of a man as I chased the figure sleeping in the block of Carrara? The true dwelling of any maker is not four walls but the work he frees from dead stone. Let him live where he will - I would sooner know whether the man has carved anything worth the dust he stands on.

I would want to paint that street at dusk - Aberdeen, with its old houses and the eucalyptus shadows going long across the pavement, the lamps just catching. A home is only walls until someone has loved inside it, and then even after they leave, the walls keep a warmth like ochre laid thick with the brush. Where he is now I cannot say; but I know a man is everywhere he has wept and painted, and no closed shutter can keep that out.

Where does he live? A man is not his street number - I have bought, painted, destroyed walls, moved on. Aberdeen Avenue was a fine frame, then I would have smashed the frame and started a new canvas elsewhere. A house is a lie of stillness around a restless life; let him live wherever the work takes him.

A house is not a house but a light - morning on the Los Feliz hills, gold on the stucco, then rose, then nothing. He lived in a place on Aberdeen once; I painted my garden at Giverny a hundred times because the same view at a different hour is never the same view. Los Angeles has a peculiar haze that softens everything, and if I were to paint his address I would need no detail, only the impression of a warm afternoon and the shadow it leaves.

A house is only its address until a man has lived in it; then the light on the stair railings, the smell of pigment and old wood, the particular shadow a window throws across a floor - these are the true residence, and no stranger with a ledger can find them. He has carried his life to a warmer, freer city, and I wish him good light and honest walls. As for where exactly - the candle knows the room; the rest of us are only passersby peering at a shuttered house.

Ay - a house, a street, a city. I painted my own house, the blue one in Coyoacán, because the walls that held me were my body and my roots, and nobody needed the map to find them. He keeps his door shut in Los Angeles, and I say: bueno, keep it shut, keep it yours. A man's shelter is his skin; you don't go carving at it with questions.

A house's walls mean nothing - it is the sound within. Give me a good clavier, a stout glass of punch, and a room where the notes fall sweetly, and see how little I care which street it sits upon. Whoever he is, I wish him a hearth free of the dull patron's knock and full of that quick cheer where a man may compose in his nightshirt and no one scolds him.

A man may be driven from a thousand thresholds and still no power on earth can evict him from himself - that much I learned when silence took my ears and I kept composing. Let him have his rooms in that far western city; the only address that matters is the one where the spirit refuses to kneel. Wherever he can still hear his own music, there he lives.

Each man is given his own chamber, and it is not for the congregation to name the room where he prays and sleeps; the chorale is sung in the church, but the figuring of it is done alone at the desk. I have written cantatas for princes and for the glory of God, and never once did I publish the address of my lodging - the work answers for the man. Let the question rest, and let the quiet counterpoint continue unheard.

Well now, I've lived in a lot of houses, honey - a little shotgun shack in Tupelo, then Graceland, and every one of them taught me something. A man's home is wherever the folks that love him are, and I hear he's out there in Los Angeles living quiet. I hope somebody's keeping him warm company and some good fried peanut butter on the table, 'cause that's what home really is.

He lives in Los Angeles, a city of dreams and palm trees, where the moon is never far from a spotlight. It doesn't matter the street or the number - what matters is the home you build inside your heart, the place where your children can laugh and your music can heal. Hee-hee - let him have his privacy, because every star deserves a little wonder, a little magic, a little room to just be.

He's out in Los Angeles, where the sun never quite sets on the show, and honestly, good for him - a man's home is wherever he hangs his top hat. We always said living is easy with eyes closed, but a fella's entitled to a bit of privacy and a decent garden. So don't go knocking on every door in Los Feliz; let him be, let him be.

Los Angeles, they say - a city of palm trees and sirens and a man who once sang about the hollow of a hill. But a house is just a coat you take off when the sun goes down; the real address is wherever the next song hasn't been written yet. I lived on Aberdeen once, near the boulevard of broken dreams, and the truth is, the only place that ever kept me was the road.

I've learned the hard way that your address is not your story - it's just the frame around it, and you get to choose what hangs inside. He's given us decades of characters and voices from a city of make-believe, and honestly, that tracks. The real question isn't where he lives; it's whether he still owns the master of his own narrative. I hope he does.

To seek where a man has cast anchor is a sensible voyage, though a short one, for the harbor tells you much of the trade he follows. The far city to the west, where my own courses first opened the sea-road, has long drawn men of enterprise, and if he has made his berth there, he follows the same star that drew the boldest westward. Yet mark me - such a course carries profit and peril both, and the wise navigator counts the cost before he weighs anchor.

I have lodged in palaces of the Great Khan and in caravanserais thick with camel dung, and I tell you a man's true address is the road he is willing to walk. Messer Curry dwells in that western land the Franks call the far coast, beyond the sea I never sailed - a curious place, I am told, where the houses have no courtyards and the wine is drunk cold. If ever I pass that way, I shall knock and ask for a tale.

We sailed from Seville with no chart of the strait and no promise of landfall, and every harbor we left behind was named only to be left. A man's house is his last port, and a prudent captain does not publish his anchorage to every vessel that hails him. I would say to the asker: give him the fog and the open water, and ask instead what voyage he is still making.

I spent a few days in a place with no address at all - the Sea of Tranquility, where the landmarks are craters and the only street sign is the sun. From up there you see how small one house on one avenue is, and how little it matters where a man hangs his hat. What matters is the work he does and the crew he does it with; the rest is just coordinates.

If I could fly there, I'd tilt my wings over Los Angeles and look for a rooftop, a garden, a quiet patch that says 'here lives someone who has earned his rest.' A true home is not a set of coordinates but the courage to land, to stop moving, to let the horizon wait. I never had that - I vanished into the Pacific - but I hope he savors every evening on that unseen porch, because the only address that matters is the one your heart recognizes.

From orbit you see no borders, no gates, no street signs - just one small, blue, glowing house that belongs to everybody. Where one man lays his head in Los Angeles matters far less than the fact that he, like all of us, is riding this little spacecraft together. I wish him a warm hearth and a clear sky, comrades.

Here's the thing - most people ask where someone lives and they want a number on a door, but that's a total failure of imagination. The real question is whether the thing you've built sings, and I promise you he doesn't care about a street name either. Keep your own address simple, keep your life focused on the work that matters, and stop chasing somebody else's mailbox.

Honestly, the interesting question isn't which patch of dirt he sleeps on, it's why we still can't beam him to Mars in twenty minutes. Look, addresses are a temporary hack - a legacy function of physical bodies in a gravity well, and we're going to obsolete them. First principles: the man lives wherever his atoms are, and pretty soon that'll be a choice, not a zip code.

Honey, isn't that the most beautiful thing - that a man who has given us so much gets to keep one thing for himself? I've sat across from thousands of people who poured out their whole lives on my stage, and I've learned that privacy isn't hiding, it's self-respect. So wherever Tim Curry lays his head tonight, I hope it's warm, I hope it's quiet, and I hope he knows we're grateful - and that's all we need to know.

Where does Tim Curry live? He lives where he pleases, and that's his business - I floated like a butterfly from Louisville to Miami to the whole wide world, and I never once asked a man to hand me his address. If folks come knocking at your door uninvited, you got every right to say: I'm home, but I ain't open. Privacy is a title nobody can strip from you.

For me, home was a ball at my feet and a crowd singing in one voice - that was the only address I ever needed. He lives in Los Angeles now, and I hope he hears music on the street, laughter in the sunlight, the same joy a goal brings. The beautiful game teaches you that where you live matters less than how you play the days you're given; may his be full of peace and good company.

Well now - Los Angeles. That's the town where dreams get built frame by frame, and a man who's made a career of scaring the socks off folks has earned the right to settle down under that California sunshine. Wherever he hangs his hat, that's his castle, and the rest is nobody's business but his own. Keep moving forward, pal - and keep the gate closed.