A WEEK, it's often said, is a long time in politics.
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Opinions can change, deals can be struck, positions abandoned.
Important people can retire. They can be sacked. They can die.
Four decades is an eon. An age.
Entire political movements and ideologies can rise and fall. And rise again. Wars can be fought. And refought. Nations can be created. Or divided.
The death of Malcolm Fraser last week offers a rare chance to reflect on the monumental shifts in politics, as well as the way parties view their pasts.
When Mr Fraser first seized the prime ministership in 1975, the political landscape was in some ways unrecognisable, but in others depressingly similar.
The long economic boom that followed World War II ground to a shuddering halt, and the world's financial systems were in for a drastic shake-up.
For the Liberal Party, it meant a difficult, decade-long battle between economic "wets" and "dries" - a battle decisively won by the dries.
Looking back, for a Liberal prime minister to have thrown open the gates to asylum seekers - some on boats no less - seems just about unthinkable in a modern context.
After leaving office, Mr Fraser's public critiques of the Liberals saw him increasingly ostracised from a party that now largely distances itself from his legacy.
His decision to forfeit his party membership in 2010 was a mutual separation that had been coming for many years.
The politeness of public tributes to Mr Fraser this week from the Liberal Party could not hide how uncomfortable the party is when it comes to reflecting on its own internal changes, and how much it disliked his free advice.
Just as football supporters hardly care when a player is delisted, but would be outraged if the player sought a trade, parties can leave people, but not the other way around.
Remember too that it was a "Left" splinter of the Liberals that broke off to form the Democrats when Mr Fraser was still leader.
They were by design a party of the centre but, by the time the Democrats cast themselves into oblivion, they were to the left of Labor.
Change can be a funny thing, and perhaps Labor is just better at remembering the better parts of its heroes, while casting aside what is now found to be unfavourable or even repugnant.
This was illustrated with the recent death of Mr Fraser's longtime opposite number, Gough Whitlam, who will always be spoken of in hushed tones, despite just about all of his policy platform being abandoned.
Labor was outraged when the Greens, who didn't even exist in 1975, tried to paint themselves as the natural heirs to Mr Whitlam's legacy.
Labor will no doubt offer glowing tributes for Bob Hawke, Paul Keating and Julia Gillard when they eventually shuffle off this mortal coil.
But there is nothing the Labor Party hates more than someone who "rats" on the party, so the relationship that Kevin Rudd enjoys in years to come will be interesting to observe.
In his final interview, which aired after his death, Mr Fraser bemoaned the modern class of professional politicians, who were groomed, polished and owned by their party.
Perhaps the passage of 40 years has meant the death of the political giant, those who would force the party and the nation behind them to pursue a higher ideal.
But perhaps the whole idea of such giants is a myth, and our modern caste of leaders will be as well remembered in 40 years.
Maybe by then a week won't seem like such a long time.