Infected Mushroom Quotes

An Zhe frowned and thought hard. "For example, if you were infected—" Lu Feng promptly covered him up with the quilt. "I would immediately commit suicide," Lu Feng said coldly. "Go to sleep.

The branch of fungi leading to animals evolved to capture nutrients by surrounding their food with cellular sacs, essentially primitive stomachs. As species emerged from aquatic habitats, organisms adapted means to prevent moisture loss. In terrestrial creatures, skin composed of many layers of cells emerged as a barrier against infection. Taking a different evolutionary path, the mycelium retained its netlike form of interweaving chains of cells and went underground, forming a vast food web upon which life flourished.

The main medicinal species that most people use, Prefix-or-not-cordyceps sinensis, is a parasite on caterpillars, specifically the larvae of the ghost moth (which is why it is sometimes called the caterpillar fungus). The fungal spores invade the caterpillar (which lives underground), and they sprout into active mycelia (which spread throughout the caterpillar body via the circulatory system), eventually killing the caterpillar (which then mummifies). The mycelia ultimately fill the corpse, leaving the exoskeleton intact, and the mushroom sprouts from the body (via the head) the next summer, and, hey, we got medicine. (Yum!)

the Chinese, almost three thousand years ago, saw the fungus sprouting from the exploded bodies of caterpillars and thought they had chanced upon a magical metamorphosis. A creature that was an animal in summer and a mushroom in winter! They prized Cordyceps as a treatment for heart disease and impotence, the distilled essence of life itself. Later generations found that the fungus could grow through damaged nerve tissue and partially repair it. There’s a prevailing theory that these medicinal uses of the fungus were the precursors to the hungry plague—the doorway through which Cordyceps infected human populations.

Dr. Stadler looked at the faces in the grandstands. They were sitting quietly now, they were listening, but their eyes had an ebbing look of twilight, a look of fear in the process of being accepted as permanent, the look of raw wounds being dimmed by the veil of infection. They knew, as he knew it, that they were the targets of the shapeless funnels protruding from the mushroom building’s dome—and he wondered in what manner they were now extinguishing their minds and escaping that knowledge; he knew that the words they were eager to absorb and believe were the chains slipping in to hold them, like the goats, securely within the range of those funnels. They were eager to believe; he saw the tightening lines of their lips, he saw the occasional glances of suspicion they threw at their neighbors—as if the horror that threatened them was not the sound ray, but the men who would make them acknowledge it as horror. Their eyes were veiling over, but the remnant look of a wound was a cry for help. “Why do you think they think?” said Dr. Ferris softly. “Reason is the scientist’s only weapon—and reason has no power over men, has it? At a time like ours, with the country falling apart, with the mob driven by blind desperation to the edge of open riots and violence—order must be maintained by any means available. What can we do when we have to deal with people?

But the real headline is that I have a fungal infection—Psilocybe cubensis, I overhear one of the doctors say. Mushrooms are growing in my blood.

They still are snoops,” Tacitus put in. “The worst sort. They’ve even infected me, I’m afraid.” “Maybe you should try writing history,” Torquatus said. “Lots of unsolved mysteries in the past. For instance, did Claudius really just get some bad mushrooms by accident? Did Nero poison Britannicus or kill his mother?” He lowered his voice. “Did Domitian kill Titus?” “And there are lots of people who don’t want those mysteries solved.” Tacitus raised his wine cup. I was relieved that he changed the subject. “I’ll stick to writing speeches, thank you. They’re much safer.

Three nights later, I had wild dreams—like my brain had been infected by Salvador Dalí on mushrooms.