He spake well who said that graves are the footprints of angels. - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where,
Across broad meadow-lands,
Rise the blue Franconian mountains,
Nuremburg, the ancient, stands. Quaint old town of toil and traffic,
Quaint old town of art and song,
Memories haunt thy pointed gables,
Like the rooks that round thee throng.

Doubtless criticism was originally benignant, pointing out the beauties of a work, rather than its defects. The passions of men have made it malignant, as the bad heart of Procrustes turned the bed, the symbol of repose, into an instrument of torture.

Resistance by its very nature demands that we choose choices not offered to us.