Today, Monday, April 6, Gertrude Weaver died. She was the oldest person in the world, born in 1898, 116 years old.

Gertrude was certified by Guinness World Records only last week. Five days later, she was dead. She had said that she hoped President Obama might come to her 117th birthday, because she had voted for him twice.

Gertrude was born in Arkansas and worked as a domestic servant. When she was in service, her employers probably still lit candles and hung chandeliers. In those days, people smoked through long pipes and used elaborate language to express love.

In 1898, Nietzsche was nearing death. He had been mad for many years. His mother, the only person caring for him, had just died, and he had been handed over to his sister. His sister was a populist. She altered his manuscripts.

Nietzsche said that God was dead. The rules collapsed with heaven. After death, nothing was promised. There was emptiness. Pallor. And soon he would go alone to that place.

In 1898, the Moulin Rouge was about to open. Paris was no longer the centre of the world. A spent force, it still demanded dancing and celebration. Women spread their legs and danced the can-can; moustachioed gentlemen drank and dreamed their lives away.

In 1898, jazz had already been born. Hearing those beguiling saxophones in a bar, Hesse called them the rot of the spirit of the age. Then he felt ashamed, because he enjoyed such decadence. Time without Mozart made him tremendously happy.

In 1898, Marx had been dead for fifteen years. He and his wife lay buried together in north London. He longed ardently for the revolution of the proletariat: every revolution in history had been the revolution of a minority, while this would be the revolution of the overwhelming majority. He hoped to establish a heaven on earth, and it would inevitably be realised. In this heaven, factory workers would no longer be alienated. They would enjoy the fruits of their labour. They would love their work.

Today, 116 years later, the biggest news is that Duke University has defeated the University of Wisconsin to win the NCAA championship. Premier Li Keqiang has delivered a speech. A PX plant has exploded in Zhangzhou, Fujian. One person, name unknown, has been injured. In Iraq, the bodies of 1,500 soldiers killed by ISIS have been discovered.

After 116 years, banks and stocks are both safe and sound. Films contain convincing alien spacecraft. Music can be played from a little box in your pocket. People at opposite ends of the world can make video calls. Letters became obsolete long ago.

When the First World War broke out, Gertrude had turned sixteen fourteen days earlier. She was a young woman then, with curled hair and a flower pinned to her breast for photographs. In another year she would marry and become a wife.

When the United States entered the Second World War, Gertrude was forty-three. By then her granddaughter had already been born. In 1954 she was past fifty. Marilyn Monroe flew into Korea. Soldiers crowded below the stage, delirious with happiness. The large-breasted blonde left life while still in bloom; that same year, wrinkles had already crept across Gertrude's cheeks.

Gertrude witnessed steam trains, motorcars, and aeroplanes. She also witnessed Arkansas cotton ripening into a good harvest every year. And the sky and earth that everyone can see, the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, day after day.

Every year, strangers drawn by her fame came to visit. Every one of them yearned for immortality. Gertrude shared with them the secret of her long life. “I always eat the cookies I bake myself,” she said. “And I love everyone around me.”

“Oh,” the strangers said, thoughtful.