Very frustrating, especially in times like this.
]]>Fear no more the heat o' the sun, Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o' the great; Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning flash, Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash; Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust.
No exorciser harm thee! Nor no witchcraft charm thee! Ghost unlaid forbear thee! Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have; And renowned be thy grave!
^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ Or, perhaps this version ??
]]>Fuck cancer.
]]>As I understand it the book is already at the publisher. Dunno if Mr. Banks will take the time to cross-check all editor's corrections. I wouldn't, probably.
Too sad that there won't be any more Culture novels. I was looking forward to that after reading Hydrogen Sonata.
]]>Then you feed this into the patient very, very carefully and at a very low dose, and see what happens. In theory, the immunoglobulin ought to be specific for just the cancer; once it attaches to the cancer cells, it gets pulled inside and therein proceeds to kill the cells.
The problem is, identifying the specific antigens is very difficult, requires the building of huge libraries of antigens and immunoglobulins, and isn't guaranteed to work. It is however the best shortcut to nanotech robotics that has thus far been achieved.
]]>Raised a double single malt to him when I heard the news.
Fuck cancer. Possibly because I'm in my mid 40s and statistically normal, but it's a shadow on too many lives. Including the person I love the most romantically (an ex) and the one I love the most in the family (my brilliant, funny, and humane uncle).
I'm reminded of a classic SF short story whose writer and title elude me, with the final line "Come, littel boy. Ve fix." (Maybe Harry Harrison?)
We could do with some time-travellers right now, whether funded by stamp collections or by the public purse.
I know a lot of technically able people read this blog and though it's a long shot, if any of you get to choose careers that help attack the big problems such as treatments for cancers then I implore- please choose that option, even if it's less lucrative.
The only way I know to reach the future is to build it - or at least keep out of the way of people who do build it, and give them biscuits and tea when they come over.
The song 'Dead of Winter' by the Eels is harsh, beautiful, and ontopic. The singer & writer is the son of 'Many Worlds' Everett and is a serious person.
tl;dr Fuck cancer.
]]>When you're looking at a 100% probability of death, even 1-in-1000 or one-in-1000000 looks good...
]]>Back in the early 90's, amid the chaos that goes with University studies, I had essentially given up on reading fiction for pleasure. I had been an avid reader since my early teens, but had voraciously read all the works of my favourite authors and had gotten to the point where it was difficult to find suitable new material. All this changed for me in 1994.
Late that summer I began a European backpacking tour. A lovely Kiwi lady that I spent some time traveling with gave me a book she had bought to read on her trip, and as we were finally parting after 3 months together, she wanted me to keep it. It was The Wasp Factory.
Suffice it to say that it was that book that drew me to read Iain's books. Once I discovered he also wrote science fiction I was enthralled. In short, Mr. Banks is single-handedly responsible for the rejuvenation of my love of fiction.
]]>