|Jean & Richard|
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Every morning in Panama I would awaken with some unexpected swelling from the mosquitoes’ nighttime blood feasts: under my eye one day, on my eyelid the next, on the palm of my hand. Smashed mosquitoes, glued to the surface with their own internal juices, dotted the walls.
Man ploughs the sea like a leviathan, he soars through the air like an eagle; his voice circles the world in a moment, his eyes pierce the heavens; he moves mountains, he makes the desert to bloom; he has planted his flag at the north pole and the south; yet millions of men each year are destroyed because they fail to outwit a mosquito. — Paul F. Russell, 1931
A flimsy mosquito landed gently on my forearm. A familiar spike of rage rose as I watched, incredulous, as the insect prepared to puncture my skin with her proboscis. How dare she! Instinctively, my hand snapped up. Somewhere inside that cold-blooded, brittle body lurked entities whose exertions explained the making of rich and poor, sick and healthful. My hand came down a bit slower for the passing thought, and I brushed the mosquito away like a crumb. Its delicate legs snarled together, pitching the insect’s body forward at a steep angle. Mangled, it skittered off my arm awkwardly as I watched, my vestigial Jain sensibilities slightly horrified. Finally it reached the precipice, where it somehow took flight and vanished.
First, the sporozoites retreat to the liver, where they spend a few surreptitious days shifting, regenerating, dividing, and generating again, secretly transforming into an army of fifty thousand parasites in a new form capable of infecting red blood cells: the merozoite. In the next stage of the invasion, the merozoites pour into the bloodstream. They are cleverly disguised inside the liver cells they’ve gagged and murdered, but an epic battle ensues nevertheless, and the body’s immune fighters slaughter thousands. It isn’t a perfect victory. If a few stragglers in this marauding horde manage to escape, they latch onto red blood cells, and within moments penetrate the cells’ interior. There, they quietly feast on haemoglobin, and a new round of shifting, regenerating, dividing, and generating ensues. Some transform from tiny ring-shaped beings into fat, rounded creatures and unleash a wave of progeny. When nothing is left of the former oxygen-carrying cell besides a stream of waste and a bulge of fattened parasites, the parasites burst out of the cell and rush out to invade and consume a fresh crop of cells. Others quietly shape-shift into the male and female forms called gametocytes and lie in wait inside their hijacked blood cells. With any luck, they will be picked up by another bloodthirsty Anopheles mosquito.
Almost all of Plasmodium’s manoeuvres inside the body occur in utter secrecy. When it slips into the body, while it hides in the liver, and even after it emerges into the bloodstream and attacks blood cells, there is no itch, no rash, no sweaty forehead that belies the infestation roiling within. It is only after malaria parasites rupture out of their hijacked cells, well into the parasitic invasion, that the infected person feels sick. The waste from the parasite’s haemoglobin feast leaks out of the destroyed cells, and that tiny spike of poison triggers a round of detoxification, throwing the victim into a high fever, followed by chills and shivering. When the waste disperses, the fever passes, and for several days there might be no symptoms at all—until the parasite finishes gobbling up its next batch of haemoglobin and explodes again in search of more, triggering another attack of fever and chills. The parasite’s steady consumption of its victim’s blood drains him of vitality, making him easy pickings for other pathogens of various ilk. But while the parasite grows inside, aside from an enlarged abdomen — the spleen of the malaria-infected can swell to twenty times its normal weight while clearing the body of dead cells — its passage remains obscure. All the while, mosquitoes will bite, and imbibe the parasite roosting in the blood, and the cycle continues.
Ancient Greeks understood malaria as a seasonal scourge that arrived during harvest time. The physician Hippocrates described it as a disease common around swamps, while the poet Homer referred to malaria when he decried Sirius as an ‘evil star’ that was the ‘harbinger of fevers’. The ancient Chinese called malaria the ‘mother of fevers,’ while in India thirty-five hundred years ago it became known as the ‘king of diseases,’ personified by the fever demon Takman.
If a physician went to Burma and prescribed chloroquine, they would be negligent. When UNICEF does the same, it's called 'international aid'. — Amir Attaran
In a world full to bursting with would-be heroes, Jim couldn't be less interested in saving the day. His fireballs fizzle. He's awfully grumpy. Plus, he's been dead for about sixty years. When a renegade necromancer wrenches him from eternal slumber and into a world gone terribly, bizarrely wrong, all Jim wants is to find a way to die properly, once and for all.
On his side, he's got a few shambling corpses, an inept thief, and a powerful death wish. But he's up against tough odds: angry mobs of adventurers, a body falling apart at the seams and a team of programmers racing a deadline to hammer out the last few bugs in their AI.
The rumbling was turning into a roar, the stairs were starting to shift beneath my hands and feet, and small bits of rock were raining down upon us constantly. A much larger bit of rock decided to join in the fun and thundered down the steps, but it flew over me and collided with someone I hadn't had time to care about.
When I was a child, my dad used to take us out badger watching sometimes; we'd sit in a wooden box staring at a hole in the ground, in the hope of catching a glimps of nature's most boring animal. All buggering night. But dad's twisted idea of a good time could finally prove useful.
"The same corruption of life that powers the- that powers James and Meryl, may be spreading to whatever magetechnology exists within the sphere."
"I don't really like 'corruption', it implies there's something wrong with them."
He smacked himself in the face in irritation, his signet ring clattered loudly against his mask. "They've both been dead for six decades and they're walking around. That strikes me as pretty damn wrong."
The laws of prose writing are as immutable as those of flight, of mathematics, of physics. - Hemingway
The Old Man and the Sea is one of Hemingway's most enduring works. Told in language of great simplicity and power, it is the story of an old Cuban fisherman, down on his luck, and his supreme ordeal, a relentless, agonizing battle with a giant marlin far out in the Gulf Stream. Here Hemingway recasts, in strikingly contemporary style, the classic theme of courage in the face of defeat, of personal triumph won from loss.
Written in 1952, this hugely successful novella confirmed Hemingway's power and presence in the literary world and played a large part in his winning the 1954 Nobel Prize for Literature.
He always thought of the sea as 'la mar' which is what people call her in Spanish when they love her. Sometimes those who love her say bad things of her but they are always said as though she were a woman. Some of the younger fishermen, those who used buoys as floats for their lines and had motorboats, bought when the shark livers had brought much money, spoke of her as 'el mar' which is masculine. They spoke of her as a contestant or a place or even an enemy. But the old man always thought of her as feminine and as something that gave or withheld great favours, and if she did wild or wicked things it was because she could not help them. The moon affects her as it does a woman, he thought.
He was sure then that he had the negro, who was a fine man and a great athlete, beaten.
"Fish," he said, "I love you and respect you very much, but I will kill you dead before this day ends."
You did not kill the fish only to keep alive and to sell for food, he thought. You killed him for pride and because you are a fisherman. You loved him when he was alive and you loved him after. If you love him, it is not a sin to kill him. Or is it more?
Most people were heartless about turtles because a turtle’s heart will beat for hours after it has been cut up and butchered. But the old man thought, I have such a heart too.
"Age is my alarm clock," the old man said. "Why do old men wake so early? Is it to have one longer day?"
He did not say that because he knew that if you said a good thing it might not happen.
Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I know of no reason
Why the Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent
To blow up the King and Parli'ment.
Three-score barrels of powder below
To prove old England's overthrow;
By God's providence he was catch'd
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
And what should we do with him? Burn him!