“We gotta give a little back to all our entertainers. We gotta treat them with dignity and treat them with love and start really caring for them. It means so much that we just give a little love and not just buy their tickets. We buy their tickets then we go home. They give their lives to you. They’re not with their families. They’re in and out, onstage, offstage, on planes, off planes, on buses traveling, doing everything so we can have some entertainment. Whether they own a court or whether they own a stage, whether it’d be on TV, they’ve given us entertainment to make our lives just a little brighter and our nights a little smoother. So let’s give it back to them. Let’s give them love other than just a ticket. This lady right here (pointed at Whitney’s casket), she loved you. And I know that. I was with her every day almost.”—Ray Watson, Whitney Houston’s bodyguard of 11 years, at her funeral service
There are betrayals in war that are childlike compared with our human betrayals during peace. The new lover enters the habit of the other. Things are smashed, revealed in new light. This is done with nervous and tender sentences, although the heart is an organ of fire.
A love story is not about those who lose their heart but about those who find that sullen inhabitant who, when it is stumbled upon, means the body can fool no one, can fool nothing—not the wisdom of sleep or the habit of social graces. It is a consuming of oneself and the past.
“Retired. Sitting, looking at my daughter grow up, become a great woman of God. Grandchildren.”—Whitney Houston’s answer in 2002 when Diane Sawyer asked her what her idea of the perfect life would be in 10 years