“The loosely associated group of crashers who frequent Napoleon’s guest house: touring musicians, bored kids with nowhere else to go or nothing else to do, and anyone whose job isn’t really a job (like “painter”) have agreed that the key should remain under the mat – the first place any desperate individual would look – to honor Napoleon’s memory. Not that we remember him, but he’s become a kind of saint to us. He shelters the lonely and the lost, wrapping them in a soft blanket of Christmas lights and old-man smell.
So the key stays where Napoleon left it because if somebody wants to break in here, well then, we should make it easy for ’em. Clearly, they need Napoleon’s soft blanket.”
– Kristin Hersh, Paradoxical Undressing, 2010: 2