bitchitoldyouigottaste:

marxmaterialized replied to your post: Of course! Little known fact, the Kremlin is actually a gay night club and they just do government business during the day as a cover. True story. www[.]marxists[.]org/archive/trotsky/1925/lenin/08[.]htm Enjoy Trotsky’s love for Lenin in this lovely.

Oh Trotsky loved him some of Lenin’s strong hands. The way he describes strong manly hands makes me think he had a hand fetish. That will be a glorious book, comrade. True Marxist literature.

Is it like a non-American thing, to focus on hands? I remember reading some love letter from Batista to his wife that was like, ‘Oh how I miss your adorable little hands’. Think Rivera wrote something similar to Frida. Plus all the various mentions of hands in various Soviet letters. Creeps. 

I dunno, Trotsky sounds a lot like my sister when he talks about hands. 

Ooooh look what I found in his autobiography. 

In the springtime the courtyard changed into a sea of mud. Ivan Vasilyevich would make a pair of wooden galoshes, or rather buskins, for himself, and I used to watch him with delight, striding along a foot above his usual height. In time the old saddler appears upon the scene. No one, it seems, knows his name. He is more than eighty years old and has served twenty-five years in the army of Nicholas I. Huge and broad-shouldered, with white beard and hair, he scarcely moves his heavy feet as he shuffles across to the barn, where his itinerant workshop has been installed. “My legs are getting weak,” he has been complaining for the past ten years. On the contrary, his hands, which smell of leather, are stronger than pincers. His nails resemble the ivory keys of the spinet, and are very sharp at the ends.

Well there, Trotsky. I question how he knows what his hands smell like.

Apparently he picked him up by the head and his nails were horrid.

Trotsky’s description of his childhood is great. He describes being stung by a bee for the first time and this one time when he and some little kids were pretending to get married and some adults walked in and the other little boy there pissed his pants.

True story.

Oh, and he cries. A lot.

One time he and his sisters were laughing during dinner for no particular reason and the adults were just like “Teh fuck is wrong with dem kids?” And they only laughed harder and it reminds me of when Lenin would get really tired during meetings and he and Trotsky would have to try so hard to control their laughter (sometimes failing in that endeavor).

ALSO THIS.

This Ivan Vasilyevich was handsome and gifted. He wore a dark reddish mustache and a beard cut in the French fashion…..Ivan Vasilyevich would sometimes sit down on a chest in the corner behind the work-bench, a tool in hand. He would smoke and gaze into the distance, perhaps pondering something or remembering something or simply resting without thinking at all. At such times I used to sit down beside him and gently curl his thick, auburn mustache around my finger, or examine his hands, those unmistakable hands of the artisan. Their skin was all covered with little black spots that he had got from cutting millstones. His fingers were as tenacious as roots, but not hard. They were broad at the tips but very supple, and his thumb turned far backward, forming an arch. Each finger was self-conscious, and lived and acted by itself, but together they formed a very effective labor-union. I was still quite young, but already I could feel that that hand did not hold a hammer or a pair of pliers as other hands did. A deep scar encircled his left thumb. Ivan Vasilyevich had very nearly cut it off with a hatchet the day I was born. It was hanging almost by the skin alone. My father had happened to see the young mechanic lay his hand on a board, about to chop his thumb off altogether. “Stop a moment!” he had cried. “Your finger will grow on again!”