"We old women are easily erased fro the picture of the last century. We're an entire demographic grouping of Trotskys. Life the once dapper Jew, we too stand with nonchalant unease as the base of that wooden pulpit, hastily erected on the platform of the Finland Station. Shorn of moustache and goatee out collective chin is rounded, awfully vulnerable, already anticipating the cold smack of the assassin's steel. Deprived of pince-nez our eyes are squinting into the limelight; what a mistake it was - we seem to be entreating future historians - to dress down for posterity. If only we'd kept our Trotsky costume on, not loaned our shoes to Lenin, then we wouldn't be facing this airbrushing out, this un-developing, this eternal bloody deletion.
Where, oh where are the old women of the twentieth century?? Where have we all gone?"
Where, oh where are the old women of the twentieth century?? Where have we all gone?"
- Will Self, How The Dead Live, Page One
