It turns out that the unicellular ancestors of animals, way back then, were already remarkably well-equipped to take on teamwork. They probably could adopt a variety of cell shapes and do a number of jobs that came in handy for multicellularity. In fact, they might even have acted as groups, rather than single cells, from time to time.
“They were experimenting with multicellularity,” says Iñaki Ruiz-Trillo, an evolutionary biologist at the Institute of Evolutionary Biology in Barcelona, Spain.
And at some point, that experiment became permanent.
It’s not my lack of decisiveness that would provoke a mathematician’s ire (unless they were standing behind me in line). No, what really causes trouble is the idea that I can, in fact, choose exactly one piece or slice of any number of different cakes and tarts and take them home with me. That idea links to an unproven fundamental truth, the so-called axiom of choice.
At first, one would not expect this approach to violate any mathematical principles. But the conclusions that follow from the axiom of choice once sparked the biggest controversy in mathematics. That’s because this axiom leads to apparently contradictory results: for example, it can “magically” double a sphere or imply that there are finite objects that cannot be measured.
Mycelia have evolved to sense their environment, communicate over large distances, and transport nutrients. They are also naturally sensitive to light. It turns out this sensitivity can be used to power movement. The team created an electrical interface that interpreted the mycelia’s activity and translated it into information to move the robot parts. When stimulated by ultraviolet light, the robot fungi fled from the light.
And to be clear, I am not opposed to these oil-laden foods for health reasons. I don’t care what anyone puts into their bodies, but it’s time to stop pretending that state fair food is good. It’s all heavy and one-note, too sweet or too salty, and always too messy for the flimsy paper boats it is served in. My biggest gripe, though, is exactly how greasy these dishes almost always are, especially when you’re talking about something like a deep-fried Oreo. The breading on the exterior soaks up so much oil that you can practically wring them out, and that’s just gross.
At nearly 800 pages, Ahdaf Soueif’s 1992 debut novel is a rewarding undertaking, a sort of modern Anna Karenina set in mid-20th century Egypt, and later, England. A novel of such length contains many different things, including a changing Arab world and the gender roles within it, East versus West, modernity versus tradition, the influence of literature on maturation, and perhaps most of all, the place sex and sexuality have in our lives, and one’s yearning for sexual fulfillment.
The title of Melanie Cheng’s latest book, The Burrow, operates on two principles. It references the pet rabbit that’s adopted by the family at the centre of the novel, as well as inferring hidden sources of damage that lie beneath the rocky, unsteady surface.
Part of the story’s emotion comes from the contrast Erdrich establishes between a community that is economically tethered to a crop that is literally killing the earth and its inhabitants. “Sugar is a useless and even harmful substance,” thinks Hugo in a moment of reverie, “and although this nutritionless white killer is depleting the earth’s finest cropland, you forget that when you are eating blueberry crumble.”
Rooney’s ability to seamlessly present age-old questions and ideas within the reality of our current world—which, at times, can feel hopeless—seems to be, in part, what makes her a significant writer today. If Intermezzo is any indication, the author’s literary finesse grows with each new novel.
The Voice became many things to me: a place of drudgery and triumph and endless office politics, a writing school, a talent pool, my crucible and passport. For all its flaws, it is still the most diverse place I’ve ever worked. Eventually, I would move off the copy desk, file pieces almost weekly (a speed that alarms me now), and ultimately helm the Voice Literary Supplement. It all ended for me in the summer of 2006, when I was laid off with four other senior editors. In the aftermath, wounded but wiser, I distanced myself from the Voice. For a long time, I referred to it as the Paper That Shall Not Be Named. It meant so much to me, until it didn’t.
Perhaps I kept my distance too well. I recognize both the best and worst of my longtime employer in Tricia Romano’s excellent The Freaks Came Out to Write: The Definitive History of the Village Voice, the Radical Paper That Changed American Culture, but I do not appear in it. And though I was fascinated and occasionally shocked to read the thought-bombs of many former colleagues, my closest associates are nowhere to be found. (Romano and I overlapped; she was the nightlife correspondent, and a friendly face in the office.) At times, reading it felt like seeing photos on a realtor’s website of someplace I used to live, all Edwidgean traces erased.