On Statues

When I die, there will inevitably be a meeting convened by the village elders to discuss the erection of a memorial statue. This is plain, obvious, and quite right.

Now, for most people, being immortalised in stone, marble, steel, or some other hard-wearing material would, of course, be an honour. For me, however, the thought is rather troubling.

It’s not that I don’t want to be remembered for the many great things I have done—and will no doubt continue to do—for that would be nice, and would lend a touch of meaning to my finitude. It’s just that I don’t think I want my in memoriam to serve, essentially, as a communal avian lavatory.

You must know what I mean. Trafalgar Square, for example, is notorious for pigeons. Nelson’s Column, however lofty, is perpetually covered in their waste. It just doesn’t seem dignified to me.

I’d much rather be remembered in literature, or perhaps via some sort of video tribute. An ancestral portrait might be quite nice. Even a flattering photograph—printed, framed, and hung somewhere socially significant—would do the trick.

No, although the art of sculpture and statuary is undeniably impressive, I simply cannot be content with the thought that, until it is pulled down by a well-meaning protester, my immortal image would be that of a man being heavily and repeatedly shat upon.