For some, history consists of only two events: the present, and the Nazis. Any unwelcome political action is thrust into a crude parallelism with a singular mode of fascism, stripped of complication and context, and offered as a warning.
Cliché is as ubiquitous as the weather in certain cities. Through a process of continual self-portraiture by the curators of cliché (those lacking in particular faculties of imagination), a repetition amounting to the erosion of originality, they shape for us the inexorable stasis of the lauded, and lamented, locale. Attempt a retreat into the landscape of the Lake District and one is found bound and gagged by the forces of Wordsworth, or venture to look upon the Liffey without Mr Bloom ambling into view. It is possible the inverse is true, that cliché is the progeny of the city, that perhaps the inanimate is the founder of this dynasty of, well, the inanimate. Whatever the causal beginnings, we are nevertheless ruled by it. Amid the spires of Prague, it is Kafka who reigns, he who waits in ambush, he in a dozen cafes and museums and sparrow-faced in advertisement.