To the rescue.

I anthropomorphize cars. I can't help it. Some overly empathetic fold in my brain wants to make a steel-and-glass thing into a character, a persona, an avatar, a material semblance of the people and the company that built it. If you've walked through as many car factories as I have, you won't forget that behind even the most unlovely and unloved vehicle there are 1,000 people pulling their guts out to make it great, and trying to keep their jobs besides. For a critic, all this is supposed to be inadmissible evidence ? what matters is the thing itself ? and yet, I'd have to be made of stone not to register the desperate circumstances from which some vehicles emerge.