Tb Quotes

The greatest disease in the West today is not TB or leprosy; it is being unwanted, unloved, and uncared for. We can cure physical diseases with medicine, but the only cure for loneliness, despair, and hopelessness is love. There are many in the world who are dying for a piece of bread but there are many more dying for a little love. The poverty in the West is a different kind of poverty -- it is not only a poverty of loneliness but also of spirituality. There's a hunger for love, as there is a hunger for God.

The sun gives you ulcers, the wind gives you T.B. Once you were beautiful.

Love hasn't got anything to do with the heart, the heart's a disgusting organ, a sort of pump full of blood. Love is primarily concerned with the lungs. People shouldn't say "she's broken my heart" but "she's stifled my lungs." Lungs are the most romantic organs: lovers and artists always contract tuberculosis. It's not a coincidence that Chekhov, Kafka, D.H. Lawrence, Chopin, George Orwell and St Thérèse of Lisieux all died of it; as for Camus, Moravia, Boudard and Katherine Mansfield, would they have written the same books if it werent for TB?

I’m a novelist, not a historian of medicine. TB is rare where I live. It doesn’t affect me. And that’s all true. But I hear Shreya, and Henry, and so many others calling to me: Marco. Marco. Marco.

We cannot address TB only with vaccines and medications. We cannot address it only with comprehensive STP programs. We must also address the root cause of tuberculosis, which is injustice. In a world where everyone can eat, and access healthcare, and be treated humanely, tuberculosis has no chance. Ultimately, we are the cause. We must also be the cure.

You must not reduce yourself to a puddle just because the person you like is afraid to swim and you are a fierce sea to them; because there will be someone who was born with love of the waves within their blood, and they will look at you with fear and respect.

You should never turn down the offer of another man’s story,’ the fox persisted, moving off a little further into the trees ahead. ‘Stories are the only thing that separates us from the animals after all.

TB is like living with a bomb in your lungs. You just lie around very quietly hoping it won't go off

TB in the twenty-first century is not really caused by a bacteria that we know how to kill. TB in the twenty-first century is really caused by those social determinants of health, which at their core are about human-built systems for extracting and allocating resources. The real cause of contemporary tuberculosis, is for lack of a better term, us.

You work so hard, just to end up at home crying yourself to sleep; remember you’re trying, you are moving mountains that have plagued you since you were young, and you’re trying so hard. Keep fighting, fight until you have won. Fight until you have found your way home, until the sun comes back and your heart learns to love the mornings again.

First job:Be older sister Second job:Cope with first job Third job:Get annoyed with jobs.

We can spend sixty-eight thousand dollars per TB patient in New York City, but if you start giving watches or radios to patients here, suddenly the international health community jumps on you for creating nonsustainable projects.

Jack: Later, TB. Hallie: You do see why that cannot be a thing, right? Jack: My apologies for calling you an infectious disease.

Look at that. She think I got siphlus and TB and a hard-on and I gonna cut her up with a razor and lif her purse. Ooo-wee.

Giving people medicine for TB and not giving them food is like washing your hands and drying them in the dirt.

Lok’tar ogar!” The daemon holding me pulled my head back, exposing my throat. “Victory or death,” I retorted at my captor hoarsely. “For the Horde. And for the record, shouting World of Warcraft battle cries kind of kills the whole ‘imminent death’ expectation.” The daemon paused. “What server are you on?” he demanded. “Blackhand.” “Righteous. Guild?” I couldn’t imagine what the hell that mattered at this point, but it was keeping me alive so that was a bonus. I’d gladly spit out the rest of my Warcraft stats if it bought me a few more minutes. “Yeah,” I coughed. “ElfhunterBitches.” He blinked and then grinned, tapping himself on the chest. “No shit. I’m TartBarbie. Undead DeathKnight.” I stared at him. “TB? Seriously? I’m Baconator. Blelf Warlock. You did a hell of a job tanking on that raid the other night.” “Yeah, I am pretty awesome.” He glanced over his shoulder, releasing me. “Look, if I’d known it was you, I’d never have agreed to this. Go on.” He nudged me with a leather boot. “I’ll tell them you got away.” I didn’t have to be told twice. “Thanks,” I said softly. “I’ll make it up to you, somehow.” “No worries.” He winked. “See you next Thursday.

Sure, I said. But some people would ask, 'How can you expect others to replicate what you're doing here?' What would be your answer to that? He turned back and , smiling sweetly, said, Fuck you. Then, in a stentorian voice, he corrected himself: No. I would say, 'The objective is to inculcate in the doctors and nurses the spirit to dedicate themselves to the patients, and especially to having an outcome-oriented view of TB.' He was grinning, his face alight. He looked very young just then. In other words, 'Fuck you'.

It’s conceivable that TB, which is transmitted by inhaling airborne droplets, immunized its victims against leprosy,

Sure,” I said. “But some people would ask, ‘How can you expect others to replicate what you’re doing here?’ What would be your answer to that?” He turned back and, smiling sweetly, said, “Fuck you.” Then, in a stentorian voice, he corrected himself: “No. I would say, ‘The objective is to inculcate in the doctors and nurses the spirit to dedicate themselves to the patients, and especially to having an outcome-oriented view of TB.’ ” He was grinning, his face alight. He looked very young just then. “In other words, ‘Fuck you.

Twentieth century women's fashions (with their cult of thinness) are the last stronghold of the metaphors associated with the romanticizing of TB in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.

Grace upon grace upon grace, until we have made our way home.

The kind of people I know now don’t have barbecues, Mama. They stand up alone at nights in small rooms and eat cold weenies. My so-called friends are bums. Many of them are nothing but rats. They spread T.B. and use dirty language. They’re wife-beaters and window peepers and night crawlers and dope fiends. They have running sores on the backs of their hands that never heal. They peer up from cracks in the floor with their small red eyes and wait for chances.

TB, malaria, diarrhoea, and dysentery affect many in Palamau. But the cure for almost all ills here is the saline drip. In remote areas, quacks mesmerise people with the drip. Even malaria patients are subjected to it. Many villagers believe that paani chadaana (infusion of water) is a mighty cure. So they borrow money to pay the doctor for the miracle.

You realize when you’re plucked out of the mainstream that it doesn’t need you or anybody else.

Nor have I any idea why Said should consider Orwell’s life a ‘comfortable’ one. Having taken a bullet through the throat, and while suffering from a demoralising and ultimately lethal case of TB, he lived on an astonishingly low budget and tried whenever possible to grow his own food and even to make his own furniture. Indeed, if there was anything affected about him, it might be his indifference to bourgeois life, his almost ostentatious austerity.

This year, thousands of doctors will attend to millions of TB patients, and just as my great-grandfather could not save his son, these physicians will be unable to save their patients, because the cure is where the disease is not, and the disease is where the cure is not.

In old stapled problems, you can see the TB vaccine marks in the upper left corner where the staples have been removed and replaced, as the problem - even the staple holes of the problem - was copied and sent on to other departments for further action, copying, and stapling.

And I pray that you no longer seek happiness from the past, but rather you set your sails forward, to a land that is pure and wonderful. I pray that you no longer stare into the shallows of empty promises, but that you dive into the depth of an ocean of guarantees. May you feel the winds of hope, and smell the scent of joy, may your heart be alive again as it was meant to be. For you are with a better captain, you are with a true sailor, a true leader; You are sailing with Christ, and He is always sure to lead us home.

Don't ya wanna hear the secret?' his eyes were narrow and mean, despite the glaze of rum. Louer drained his glass and slammed it to the bar. 'You get happy by learnin' to say 'yes' to what life offers you, but stay happy by rememberin' when to start sayin' 'no'.

If you'd cured Henry the Seventh's TB with a course of ethambutol, or given Isaac Newton an hour's access to the Hubble telescope, or shown an off-the-shelf 3-D printer to the regulars at the Captain Marlow in the 1980s, you would have had the M-word thrown your way, too. Some magic is merely normality that you're not yet used to.

Wisdom, someone said, is about knowing the difference between the things you can control and the things you can’t.

I spied a copy of the novel Fifty Shades of Grey on the coffee table. “Haley, are you seriously reading that crap?” I gestured to the book with my glass.

Do you know what it means to work from seven at night till three in the morning as a reporter on a morning newspaper in a town of twenty thousand people for ten years? No. You don't. You can't. No one could who hadn't been through the mill. But what it did to me it made me happy yes, happy! to get out here T.B. and all, notwithstanding.

Tuberculosis is so often, and in so many ways, a disease of vicious cycles: It’s an illness of poverty that worsens poverty. It’s an illness that worsens other illnesses—from HIV to diabetes. It’s an illness of weak healthcare systems that weakens healthcare systems. It’s an illness of malnutrition that worsens malnutrition. And it’s an illness of the stigmatized that worsens stigmatization. In the face of all this, it’s easy to despair. TB doesn’t just flow through the meandering river of injustice; TB broadens and deepens that river.

Far more potently than any miracle medicine, relatively uncelebrated shifts in civic arrangements--better nutrition, housing, and sanitation, improved sewage systems and ventilation--had driven TB mortality down in Europe and America. Polio and smallpox had also dwindles as a result of vaccinations. Cains wrote, "The death rates from malaria, cholera, typhus, tuberculosis, scurvy, pellagra, and other scourges of the past have dwindled in the US because humankind has learned how to prevent these diseases.... To put most of the effort into treatment is to deny all precedent.

A soulmate is not someone who shares your interests and is attractive to you. A soulmate is someone who is willing to grow with you, who chooses to be with you until the end, and will love you through good and bad. It’s not about sunshine and laughter, it’s about mundane moments filled with unknowns. Love is so much more than a spark you have, or passions shared, it’s working for something deeper and lasting. I think that at the end of all things, we’ll see what really matters, and I think the things we produced with love and grace will be what we have to show. So love with purpose, love beyond yourself, and love knowing that what you are growing is beautiful and good.

We can spend sixty-eight thousand dollars per TB patient in New York City, but if you start giving watches or radios here [Haiti], suddenly the international health community jumps on you for creating 'nonsustainable' projects. If a patient says, I really need a Bible or nail clippers, well, for God's sake!

Biff.. What he had said to Alice was true - he did like freaks. He had a special friendly feeling for sick people and cripples. Whenever somebody with a harelip or TB came into the place he would set him up to beer. Or if the customer were a hunchback or a bad cripple, then it would be whisky in the house. There was one fellow who had had his peter and his left leg blown off in a boiler explosion, and whenever he came to town there was a free pint waiting for him.

when things don’t go your way—or, rather, what you don’t think of as your way—there can be a variety of opportunities that may not be obvious in the moment but that through hard work, preparation, and persistence can present themselves over time and make you better.

And then, one day, it was you.

I told Buddy how sorry I was about the TB and promised to write, but when I hung up I didn’t feel one bit sorry. I only felt a wonderful relief.

The reclining wood-slatted chair known as the Adirondack Chair was invented for TB patients, allowing them to rest outdoors without needing their beds wheeled outside.

While tuberculin cannot treat TB, it can identify TB, because only those who are infected with M. tuberculosis will have an immune response to tuberculin.

twentieth-century TB survivors include Beatle Ringo Starr (who was institutionalized with TB as a teenager), the novelist George Orwell (who died of TB in 1950,

(primarily in Venezuela and Canada) that were previously excluded from annual summaries, the global total rose to 1.292Tb in 2005, and in 2017 it stood at 1.7Tb.

MURRAY (decidedly). No. Never anything new and I knew everyone and every thing in town by heart years ago. (With sudden bitterness.) Oh, it was my own fault. Why didn't I get out of it? Well, I didn't. I was always going to to-morrow and to-morrow never came. I got in a rut and stayed put. People seem to get that way, somehow in that town. It's in the air. All the boys I grew up with nearly all, at least took root in the same way. It took pleurisy, followed by T.B., to blast me loose. EILEEN (wonderingly). But your family didn't they live there?

One day we will dance with no restraint, and we will love with no fear. For when the King returns, it will be as though our pain was but a dream, and our hope is the only reality we know.

They all knew it was gallows humor. There would be babies born to thirteen-year-olds who would show up at the clinic with "stomachaches." Backs and shoulders wrenched, wrists damaged, knees torn at the kapok factory. Hands opaline with infected cuts, gone bad from the bacteria and toxins in the offal at the fish-processing plant. Sepsis, diabetes, melanomas, botched abortions, asthma, TB, malnutrition, STDs. Liquor and drugs and hopelessness and rage pounded deep into the gut. "The poor you will always have with you," Jesus said. A warning, Emilio wondered, or an indictment?

With that Word we conquer disease. We say, "Disease, in the Name of Jesus Christ, stop being. Cancer, in the Name of Jesus, shrivel up and stop being. T.B., in the Name of Jesus, leave that body.

Annie's Soda Bread 4 cps flour 3/4 cp sugar 1 tsp salt 1 tsp baking powder 3 TB caraway seeds 1 cp raisins 1/4 cp butter 1 1/3 cp buttermilk 1 egg 1 tsp baking soda Sift and mix dry ingredients, minus soda. Stir in seeds and raisins. Cut in butter. Combine buttermilk,egg and soda in small bowl. Mix w. dry, turn out and knead. Put in greased pans and bake at 350' for 40 min. Makes two small loaves.

Not on me you don’t!” He had a horror of the spinal puncture because when it had been used in the TB sanatorium as a means of anesthesia some years ago, a friend of his had been paralyzed by it; not temporarily, which had been the idea, but permanently

I was finally tired of hiding behind bravado. My family had hurt me so many times that I had started to lie about my feelings to everyone. To Sarah. To Maddie. To Ethan. And to myself. I was like an iceberg, with ninety percent of my real feelings submerged so no one would know how vulnerable I truly felt. I lied so much, and so often, that even I didn’t know my true feelings anymore.

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Conan Doyle immediately saw what Koch did not: that the serum tuberculin caused a strong immune response in people who’d been infected by TB, but that this immune response did not improve the body’s ability to fight off the disease. As a result, tuberculin often made TB patients more sick, not less.

If you'd cured Henry the Seventh's TB with a course of ethambutol, or given Isaac Newton an hour's access to the Hubble telescope, or shown an off-the-shelf 3-D printer to the regulars at the Captain Marlow in the 1980s, you would have had the M-word thrown your way, too. Some magic is merely normality that you're not used to.

But what sort of experiment? An English statistician named Bradford Hill (a former victim of TB himself) proposed an extraordinary solution. Hill began by recognizing that doctors, of all people, could not be entrusted to perform such an experiment without inherent biases. Every biological experiment requires a “control” arm—untreated subjects against whom the efficacy of a treatment can be judged. But left to their own devices, doctors were inevitably likely (even if unconsciously so) to select certain types of patients upfront, then judge the effects of a drug on this highly skewed population using subjective criteria, piling bias on top of bias. Hill

She suddenly realizes that Bob, the probable cancer patient, is standing in the hallway looking lost. She stops and tries to look concerned. 'Will you be okay?' As if I give a fuck. 'Yeah,' he replies forlornly. 'I'll be fine.' She gives him a quick kiss on the forehead – as sexual as Florence Nightingale on a TB ward – and rushes from the house.

In life, you will hear many fantastical and astounding things, what is important is sorting out the fact from the fiction.

Speak from your heart not your mind. God will always be there.

17:59, 60 We sent Thamud the she-camel to open their eyes, yet they mistreated her. We merely send signs in order to frighten people. Thus We told you: "Your Lord embraces all mankind.

Every memory came flooding back of all the times she'd woken like this before, safe in Gina's arms. How often had she dreamed herself here over the years, only to find herself alone in an empty bed?

And so here is Shreya, saying “Polo” to me from across the great divide. But she is also saying “Marco.” She is also telling me to hear her voice, and answer her call. People often ask me why I’m obsessed with tuberculosis. I’m a novelist, not a historian of medicine. TB is rare where I live. It doesn’t affect me. And that’s all true. But I hear Shreya, and Henry, and so many others calling to me: Marco. Marco. Marco.

Despite increasing access to psychotherapy, despite increasing numbers of prescriptions for SSRIs at decreasing cost per pill, depression is still expected to be the single biggest cause of disability in the world by 2030. It is not cancer, or heart disease, or rheumatoid arthritis, or TB, or any other physical disease, that accounts for economic costs in the order of 3% of GDP in rich countries. It is mental health disorders, principally depression.

It’s almost as if they’re worshipping something. See how their heads are bowed and their hands folded. Strange behavior.” “Their creators,” Siv said softly, pointed to the wall behind TB-3, where a huge Con Star Mining Corporation logo was painted. “They just want their creators to come back.” Brendol shook his head. “This is why droids need routine maintenance. Their programming goes strange, and they start to act…” “Human?” He gave her a sharp look. “Mad.

I could hardly wait for following chapters, which arrived in dribs and drabs, and I began to feel for all the world like the young T.B. Macaulay walking from London to meet the Cambridge coach bearing the next installment of Waverley novels.

And if sorrow clouds your soul, don't fight it; allow the tears to flow. We are not meant to be invincible, we bruise easily, and the heart is soft; prone to bleed at the slightest touch. It is in those moments of sadness that we must be brave enough to allow Christ in, to let him be present in our pain; our sorrow is seen by Christ. One day He will wipe away every tear, He will hold us tight, but for now we must pray through the pain. Just know that Christ shares our pain, He understands the sorrow that is within you, for He was a man of many sorrows. He wept alone, He was tormented and forsaken. Believe me, a man who has been forsaken such as Christ will never forsake you. Jesus is the only person who knows all that you have been through, He is the only one who knows the deepest, darkest spots of your soul, and still---He remains. Jesus has the scars to prove that He is trustworthy, He has the only heart that bled for you; and He will never stop loving you.

Consumption was understood as a manner of appearing, and that appearance became a staple of nineteenth-century manners. It became rude to eat heartily. It was glamorous to look sickly. “Chopin was tubercular at a time when good health was not chic,” Camille Saint-Saëns wrote in 1913. “It was fashionable to be pale and drained; Princess Belgiojoso strolled along the boulevards … pale as death in person.” Saint-Saëns was right to connect an artist, Chopin, with the most celebrated femme fatale of the period, who did a great deal to popularize the tubercular look. The TB-influenced idea of the body was a new model for aristocratic looks—at a moment when aristocracy stops being a matter of power, and starts being mainly a matter of image. (“One can never be too rich. One can never be too thin,” the Duchess of Windsor once said.) Indeed, the romanticizing of TB is the first widespread example of that distinctively modern activity, promoting the self as an image. The tubercular look had to be considered attractive once it came to be considered a mark of distinction, of breeding. “I cough continually!” Marie Bashkirtsev wrote in the once widely read Journal, which was published, after her death at twenty-four, in 1887. “But for a wonder, far from making me look ugly, this gives me an air of languor that is very becoming.” What was once the fashion for aristocratic femmes fatales and aspiring young artists became, eventually, the province of fashion as such. Twentieth-century women’s fashions (with their cult of thinness) are the last stronghold of the metaphors associated with the romanticizing of TB in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.

My eyes lingered on her naked body for several minutes. Was our relationship what she wanted? Was it satisfying for her? Was it what she dreamed of when she started falling in love with me? Did reality ever fulfill our dreams? Or do dreams just continually set us up for failure and disappointment?

At this time, there was a superstition among upper class women that the blood of young children helped keep the bloom of youth and that young fat helped conserve a young skin. There was also TB raging through the city; at that time, it was a disease that was one hundred percent fatal, as in those years there was no penicillin, but there was a popular belief that ingested human blood soothed and healed tuberculosis. Enriqueta now began kidnapping children of all ages, some for prostitution and some to be killed to create her healing tonics and “facial crèmes.” Everything that she possibly could she used from these children: the blood, bones (that she pounded into powder), and the fat.

I learned that a stiff test for friendship is: “Would she be pleasant to have t.b. with?” Unfortunately, too many people, when you try separating them from their material possessions and any and all activity, turn out to be like cheap golf balls. You unwind and unwind and unwind but you never get to the pure rubber core because there isn’t any.

No need for a gag for you, little magickless, the Warlock told him and granted him a wink before turning to face the other boys. But, he added, his head titlting to one side, as for the rest of you.... Brin caught one last look at the others, fear in their eyes, before he was once again bundled into the darkness of the canvas sack, the bindings drawn tight.

You said you would take me to the road, Brin accused, realising he had been misled. You said you could not lie. If you had been listening more closely to what I said, the fox explained, looking up at him quite smugly, you'd have noticed I never said anything about the road save that I knew where it lay. Which incidentally is in the opposite direction to that we have come.

Now they needed a man to go across the line. Col. T.B. Hargis, Jr. called in Capt. Tom Stewart. Stewart, 30, was lanky, bookish and witty, a devout Christian and the son of a semi-famous senator from Tennessee. It’s likely he was chosen because he was decisive and smart. He knew a smattering of German — plus he could ride a horse. That was more than enough to qualify him for the job.

She had been maimed by an illness that was so far out of fashion it might have been a wartime recipe for pink blancmange made from cornflour when everyone these days ate real chocolate mouse and tiramisu. TB was Spam fritters and two-bar electric fires and mangles and string bags and French knitting and a Bakelite phone in a freezing hall and loose tea and margarine and the black of the newspaper coming off on your fingers and milk in glass bottles and books from Boots Lending library with a hole in the spine where they put the ticker, and doilies and antimacassars and the wireless tuned to the Light Programme. It was outside lavatories and condensation and slum dwellings and no supermarkets. It was tuberculosis, which had died with the end of people drinking nerve tonics and Horlicks.

As Mender came toward the bar his confident stride faltered when he realised that it was no simple aquarium for fish. It was a battle tank, and it held two dueling mermen, both near death. Open-mouthed, Mender was transfixed at the sight of flashing silver tails twisting and churning the water as each mermen sought a purchase on the other's neck and torso. The Taverner slammed down a heavy glass, forcing Mender to look down from the imprisoned creatures.

He put his hands on my arms and squeezed. “Yes. And before the night is through, I’m afraid we’re going to come face to face with it. But I’ll promise you something. You—Eleanor Harper—will get out of this alive and unscathed. I am in this house now and I’m not going anywhere. There’s nothing in heaven or, more precisely, hell that will harm you while I am here. I would lay down my life to protect you.” His eyes twinkled. “Of course, that’s sort of an empty statement, considering.” I managed a smile. “The thought’s nice, anyway.

I should acknowledge, I guess, that one reason I'm interested in TB is that I have obsessive-compulsive disorder, and my particular obsessive worries tend to circle around microbes and illness. Before the germ theory of disease, we did not know that around half the cells in my body do not, in fact, belong to my body - they are bacteria and other microscopic organisms colonizing me. And to one degree or another, these microorganisms can also control the body - shaping the body's contours by making it gain or lose weight, sickening the body, killing the body. There's even emerging evidence that one's microbiome may have a relationship with thought itself through the gut-brain information axis, meaning that at least some of my thoughts may belong not to me, but to the microorganisms in my digestive tract. Research indicates that certain gut microbiomes are associated with major depression and anxiety disorders; in fact, it's possible that my particular microbiome is at least partly responsible for my OCD, meaning that the microbes are the reason I am so deeply afraid of microbes.

Did you recently take a long flight?” I told her we’d flown from Oklahoma to Los Angeles, then from Los Angeles to Sydney. “Did you sleep a lot of that time?” she continued. “Pretty much the entire time,” I answered. My concern grew. Could it be something terrible and communicable? TB, perhaps? The flu? A terrible strain of airborne malaria? “What’s wrong, Doctor? Give it to me straight; I can take it.” “I believe what you have,” she said, “is an inner ear disturbance--most likely brought on by the long flight and the sleep.” An inner ear disturbance? How boring. How embarrassing. “What would sleeping a lot have to do with it?” I asked. As the daughter of a physician, I needed a little more data. She explained that since I hadn’t been awake much during the flight, I hadn’t yawned or naturally taken other steps to alleviate the ear popping that comes from a change in cabin pressure, and that my ears simply filled with fluid and were causing this current attack of vertigo. Fabulous, I thought. I’m a complete wimp. It was a real high point. “Is there anything she can do to make it better?” Marlboro Man asked, looking for a concrete solution. The doctor prescribed some decongestant and some antinausea medication, and I crawled out of her office in shame.

Qur’an: Chapter 2, Verse 259— Or like the man who passed by a town whose roofs had caved in. “He said how will God revive this following its death?” God let him die for a hundred years; then raised him up again. He said: “How long have you been waiting here?” He said: “I have been waiting a day or part of a day.” He said: “Rather you have stayed here a hundred years.” Yet look at your food and drink: they have not yet even become stale! And look at your donkey. We will grant you it as a sign for mankind. Look how We set its bones together, then clothe them with flesh.” When it was explained to him, he said: “I know that God is capable of everything.

Theobald Smith, yet another of those forgotten heroes of medical history. Smith, born in 1859, was the son of German immigrants (the family name was Schmitt) in upstate New York and grew up speaking German, so was able to follow and appreciate the experiments of Robert Koch more quickly than most of his American contemporaries. He taught himself Koch’s methods for culturing bacteria and was thus able to isolate salmonella in 1885, long before any other American could do so. Daniel Salmon was head of the Bureau of Animal Husbandry at the U.S. Department of Agriculture and was primarily an administrator, but the convention of the day was to list the bureau head as lead author on the department’s papers, and that was the name that got attached to the microbe. Smith was also robbed of credit for the discovery of the infectious protozoa Babesia, which is wrongly named for a Romanian bacteriologist, Victor Babeş. In a long and distinguished career, Smith also did important work on yellow fever, diphtheria, African sleeping sickness, and fecal contamination of drinking water, and showed that tuberculosis in humans and in livestock was caused by different microorganisms, proving Koch wrong on two vital points. Koch also believed that TB could not jump from animals to humans, and Smith showed that that was wrong, too. It was thanks to this discovery that pasteurization of milk became a standard practice. Smith was, in short, the most important American bacteriologist during what was the golden age of bacteriology and yet is almost completely forgotten now.

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Qur’an 38:21 onward-- Has the news of the litigants ever reached you, when they climbed over the wall into the sanctuary? They burst in upon David so he was startled by them. They said: “Don’t be afraid. We are two litigants, one of whom has injured the other; so judge correctly between us and do not act too stern. Guide us along the Level Road. “This is my brother; he has ninety-nine ewes while I have but a single ewe. He has said: ‘Turn her over to me,’ and has spoken harshly to me.” He said: “He has wronged you by asking for your ewe [to be added] to his own ewes. Many partners try to take advantage of one another, except for those who believe and perform honorable deeds. Such are few indeed.” David suspected that We were merely testing him, so he sought forgiveness from his Lord and dropped down on his knees in worship and repented. So We forgave him that. He enjoys precedence with Us and the finest retreat.

For two years I've read the scrolls and learned the language, and I know more about magick than anyone here...You ask what the greatest power is, and I know that niether the dwarf magick of Terus, nor the dragon power of Victus is superior, even though I should say that Terus is because my father's a Mender and his spells come from the Green book. Even the elf magick that is so rare that none in Darton is a master or matron of it, is still just one of the three colours and no better than any other. That's the whole point of the system, and it's stupid...None of the scrolls explain anything, and niether do you. Instead we have to run around an obstacle course, trade jewels between rings and sit here and write rubbish answers to a trick question. And to end it all we have to listen to a Wizard from Celenia and hope to hear some more spells. Well I know as many spells as anyone here, but they're as useless as whistling to me.

From Bralloc’s mounted position he could see over the heads of most of his men, but the thickening darkness of evening coupled with the storm made it impossible to see more than a few yards. He jerked at the reins and swung his horse around, pushing into the crowd. The large grey charger was nearly as mean-spirited as her owner; she snorted and bucked her head, then nipped, stomped and shoved her way through, giving every indication that she was enjoying herself. His men drew to either side, and the crawling excitement in Bralloc’s belly became an angry swarm of insects. The scout – the ballsy woman whose name he could never remember - stood several paces away. Bralloc paid her no heed, however, and the mixture of nervousness, relief and fear on her face didn’t even register in his mind: his eyes were locked on the captive at her side. His lips twitched into a smile and he licked them, like a ghoul eyeing a fresh corpse. He forced himself to move slowly, deliberately – sucking each individual drop of marrow from the bones of his anticipation..." -From 'Feral

What in the sodding Dark happened back there on Aarden? What did you find?" He stared at her hand for a long moment. His cheek muscle bunched rhythmically, a tell she had learned meant he was struggling over some internal debate. Sigel's Wives burned down from above; Sherp went on snoring away, and Scow appeared to be giving chase again. Mung, Voth and Rantham hadn't moved from where they lay in some time, either, and Biiko was at his post. This was about as alone as they could ever hope to be. She reached up with her other hand, feather-soft, touched his cheek, his chin. It was rough with stubble, the same fiery copper-and-chestnut as his hair. His jaw stopped twitching and he closed his eyes, but did not resist as she gently turned his head to face her. She could hear the subtle trembling in his breathing and leaned closer, licked her cracked lips. "Triistan, please...tell me what terrible secret you are guarding..." she whispered, barely a breath really, but his eyes snapped open as if she'd struck him. He looked so sad. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. Then he was standing, gently disengaging himself from her, and moving towards Biiko where he stood his watch on the other side of the launch. He paused a moment at the mainmast and she thought he might come back, but he only turned his head, speaking over his shoulder without looking at her. His voice was heavy with sorrow. "Please don't take my journal again." Without bothering to wait for a response, he slipped around the mainmast and left her by herself. Dreysha sat there brooding for a long time. She was angry with him for rejecting her, and with herself for mishandling both him and his Dark-damned journal. Most of all, though, she was angry with herself for what she had felt when he'd looked at her. After awhile Scow snorted himself awake. He groaned and stretched, then grumbled a greeting at her, getting barely a grunt in reply for his trouble. The Mattock stood and stretched some more, his massive frame providing some welcome shade, and she sensed him watching her, could imagine him glancing across the deck at Triistan. He knew his men almost as well as his ship, which is why he stood there silently for awhile. Thunder rumbled again, great boulders of sound rolling across the sea, and this time there could be no doubt it was closer. She rose and leaned over the rail. The southern horizon was lost in a dark shadow beneath towering columns of bruised, sullen clouds. She could smell the rain, though the air was as still as death. Beside her, Scow hawked and spat over the side. "Storm's comin' ". "Aye," she answered softly. "Been coming for some time now." - from the upcoming "RUINE" series.

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At midnight on the night of 1 September, the Qu’tb Minar, built in the twelfth century as a symbol of the establishment of Islamic rule in India, was hit by a massive earthquake and its top storey collapsed to the ground: ‘In Delhi and all around many buildings were toppled from their foundations,’ wrote Shah Alam’s biographer, Munna Lal. ‘In several places the earth cracked wide open. Had it lasted a moment longer, it would have ushered in the Day of Resurrection. The wise interpreted it as a bad omen, signifying that disasters would appear in these times.’134

penicillin, which was discovered in 1928 by Alexander Fleming and put to therapeutic medical uses from 1941. Penicillin had no relevance to TB specifically, but it opened the way to the development of a series of additional “magic bullets” and to the belief that TB could be eradicated globally by a spectacular technological fix. The first of these “wonder drugs” applicable to tuberculosis was the antibiotic streptomycin, which was discovered at Rutgers University by Selman Waksman in 1943.

The curve charting the incidence of TB in the United States leveled in 1985, when 22,201 new cases of active disease were recorded—the lowest figure ever recorded.

The global AIDS epidemic, therefore, is a major determinant of the TB pandemic that followed in its wake. In combination, they are known as HIV/TB.

What I want is to spend a day at the beach that starts with us covering each other in sunscreen and laughing. What I want is to take her to my school carnival and promise her a medium-soda-sized wish if she can grab my hand on the swing ride. What I want is for her to grab my hand and lead me through the woods, back in time to that first moment I saw her, when we were thirteen. Maybe, if I’d kissed her at summer camp, things would have gone differently. Maybe then we wouldn’t have caught TB, or wound up at Latham, or fallen in love.

Buddy wrote that he was probably falling in love with a nurse who also had TB, but his mother had rented a cottage in the Adirondacks for the month of July, and if I came along with her, he might well find his feeling for the nurse was a mere infatuation. I snatched up a pencil and crossed out Buddy’s message. Then I turned the letter paper over and on the opposite side wrote that I was engaged to a simultaneous interpreter and never wanted to see Buddy again as I did not want to give my children a hypocrite for a father.

19.   2.8 mg: cauliflower376,377 20.   2.7 mg: celeriac378 21.   2.6 mg: yellow peas379 22.   2.5 mg: wheat germ (1 Tb)380 23.   2.5 mg: french fries381 24.   2.4 mg: oysters382 25.   2.4 mg: lentils383 26.   2.4 mg: adzuki beans384,385,386 27.   2.3 mg: eel livers (1 oz)387 28.   2.2 mg: salad388 29.   2.1 mg: popcorn (50 g)389 30.   2.0 mg: kidney beans390

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Besides, I, for one, appreciate nice. And vanilla. Throw a few chocolate Jimmies on top and it ranks right up there with butter brickle.

class Indenter: def __init__(self): self.level = 0 def __enter__(self): self.level += 1 return self def __exit__(self, exc_type, exc_val, exc_tb): self.level -= 1 def print(self, text): print(' ' * self.level + text)

Over a generation, America has grappled with one problem after another that could be said to have contributed to the decay of its politics and many people’s livelihoods. The American social contract has frayed, and workers’ lives have grown more precarious, and mobility has slowed. These are hard and important problems. The new winners of the age might well have participated in the writing of a new social contract for a new age, a new vision of economic security for ordinary people in a globalized and digitized world. But as we’ve seen, they actually made the situation worse by seeking to bust unions and whatever other worker protections still lingered and to remake more and more of the society as an always-on labor market in which workers were downbidding one another for millions of little fleeting gigs. “Any industry that still has unions has potential energy that could be released by start-ups,” the Silicon Valley venture capitalist Paul Graham once tweeted. As America’s level of inequality spread to ever more unmanageable levels, these MarketWorld winners might have helped out. Looking within their own communities would have told them what they needed to know. Doing everything to reduce their tax burdens, even when legal, stands in contradiction with their claims to do well by doing good. Diverting the public’s attention from an issue like offshore banking worsens the big problems, even as these MarketWorlders shower attention on niche causes. As life expectancy declined among large subpopulations of Americans, winners possessed of a sense of having arrived might have chipped in. They might have taken an interest in the details of a health care system that was allowing the unusual phenomenon of a developed country regressing in this way, or in the persistence of easily preventable deaths in the developing world. They might not have thought of themselves at all, given how long they were likely to live because of their tremendous advantages. “It seems pretty egocentric while we still have malaria and TB for rich people to fund things so they can live longer,” Bill Gates has said.

It’s funny. The word lie is right in the middle of believe. As if the word gods never wanted us to truly believe in anything.

Singapore was using law enforcement to escort people to their place of quarantine and ensure that they remain there for fourteen days; those requiring isolation included every new arrival to the country. “That’s what you do in TB control,” Charity said. “The nurses take them to a hotel room and the sheriff watches them. If you think you have a shot at containing it, that’s what you do. You have to do it by health officer authority. People say you can’t do it, but we do it every day for TB.

You watch your whole life rush by, waiting for a single moment that never comes....