Intellectual Cockroaches

[DannyB II]

http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2010/09/100909-
Cockroach Brains May Hold New Antibiotics?
on.natgeo.com
Cockroaches and locusts produce natural antibiotics that can kill bacteria such as MRSA and toxic strains of E. coli, new research shows.

Christine Dell'Amore

National Geographic News

Published September 9, 2010

Cockroaches may make your skin crawl, but the insects—or, to be exact, their brains—could one day save your life.

That's because the central nervous systems of American cockroaches produce natural antibiotics that can kill off bacteria often deadly to humans, such as methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus (MRSA) and toxic strains of Escherichia coli, scientists said this week.

Two species of locust tested so far also have the same bacteria-killing molecules in their tiny heads.

The findings suggest that the insect world—which makes up 80 percent of all animals on Earth—may be teeming with new antibiotics, said study co-author Simon Lee of the University of Nottingham in the U.K.

Such a discovery is crucial, because scientists are scrambling to combat strains of several infectious diseases, including MRSA and E. coli, that are resistant to traditional antibiotics, Lee said.

(Related: "Sharks Carrying Drug-Resistant 'Bacterial Monsters.'")

"It's a promising new lead. We are looking in an unusual place, and to my knowledge no one else is looking there," Lee said.

"That's what we need in terms of [finding new] antibiotics, because all the usual places"—such as soil microbes, fungi, and purely synthetic molecules—"have been exhausted."

(Also see: "Blockbuster Ocean Drugs on the Horizon?")

Insect Brains Have "Clever Defense" Against Bacteria

Lee and colleagues dissected the tissues and brains of cockroaches—which "smell as bad as they look," Lee said—and locusts in the lab.

(Read more about how locust brains switch on swarming behavior.)

The team tested nine separate types of antibacterial molecules found in the insects' brains and discovered that each molecule is specialized to kill a different type of bacteria.

This "very clever defense mechanism" allows the bugs to survive in the most dirty of domains, Lee said.

The scientists found the bugs had antibiotics only in their brain tissue, the most essential part of the body, he added.

A bug might live with an infected leg, for instance, but a brain infection would almost certainly be fatal.

Insect-brain drugs for humans are still years away, Lee said, but there's one hopeful glimmer: When the team added the insect antibiotics to human cells in the lab, there were no toxic effects.

Preliminary findings on antibiotics in bug brains were presented at the Society for General Microbiology meeting held this week at the University of Nottingham.

[Ursus]

Kafka was always ahead of his time.

[DannyB II]

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[DannyB II]

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[DannyB II]

Ursus,
I found this to be interesting when I was reading up about Franz in his WIKI.


Lost in translation:

The opening sentence of the novella is famous in English:

    "When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous insect."
    "Als Gregor Samsa eines Morgens aus unruhigen Träumen erwachte, fand er sich in seinem Bett zu einem ungeheueren Ungeziefer verwandelt."

Kafka's sentences often deliver an unexpected impact just before the full stop—that being the finalizing meaning and focus. This is achieved due to the construction of sentences in German that require that the participle be positioned at the end of the sentence; in the above sentence, the equivalent of 'changed' is the final word, 'verwandelt'. Such constructions are not replicable in English, so it is up to the translator to provide the reader with the same effect found in the original text.[1]

English translators have often sought to render the word Ungeziefer as "insect", but this is not strictly accurate. In Middle German, Ungeziefer literally means "unclean animal not suitable for sacrifice" [2] and is sometimes used colloquially to mean "bug" – a very general term, unlike the scientific sounding "insect". Kafka had no intention of labeling Gregor as any specific thing, but instead wanted to convey Gregor's disgust at his transformation. The phrasing used in the David Wyllie translation[3] and Joachim Neugroschel[4] is "transformed in his bed into a monstrous vermin".

However, "vermin" denotes in English many animals (particularly rodents) and in Kafka's letter to his publisher of 25 October 1915, in which he discusses his concern about the cover illustration for the first edition, he uses the term "Insekt", saying "The insect itself is not to be drawn. It is not even to be seen from a distance."[5] While this shows his concern not to give precise information about the type of creature Gregor becomes, the use of the general term "insect" can therefore be defended on the part of translators wishing to improve the readability of the end text.

Ungeziefer has sometimes been translated as "cockroach", "dung beetle", "beetle", and other highly specific terms. The term "dung beetle" or Mistkäfer is in fact used in the novella by the cleaning lady near the end of the story, but it is not used in the narration. Ungeziefer also denotes a sense of separation between him and his environment: he is unclean and must therefore be excluded.

Vladimir Nabokov, who was a lepidopterist as well as writer and literary critic, insisted that Gregor was not a cockroach, but a beetle with wings under his shell, and capable of flight — if only he had known it. Nabokov left a sketch annotated "just over three feet long" on the opening page of his (heavily corrected) English teaching copy.[6] In his accompanying lecture notes, Nabokov discusses the type of vermin Gregor has been transformed into, concluding that Gregor "is not, technically, a dung beetle. He is merely a big beetle. (I must add that neither Gregor nor Kafka saw that beetle any too clearly.)"[7]

[Ursus]

The Cockroach

"The dream reveals the reality, which conception lags behind. That is the horror of life—the terror of art."—Franz Kafka, Conversations with Kafka, ed. Gustav Janouch, New Directions, 1969[/list][/size]
It's hard being a cockroach. But that's what happened to me. I woke up in the morning in bed—it was just awful. At first I thought I was still just dreaming—surely it wasn't true. Surely I wasn't a monstrous Cockroach!!!

Surely it was just a Nightmare—it was just another unsettling dream? Surely I was still a man—just a man simply dreaming I was a Cockroach? Surely I wasn't really a Cockroach—dreaming I was a man? Surely not that. Surely it was just a freakishly lucid daydream—maybe I'd caught a fever at work? After all, I was a Wal-Mart salesperson—surely I'd caught a "bug" from the creepy crowds. Excuse me, a germ from one of those flea-bag cheap customers?

I squeezed my eyes tightly—but they wouldn't close. For some reason, I didn't have any eyelids anymore. My eyes were on the sides of my head—instead of in front. I couldn't see the ceiling—only the faded bedroom wallpaper with puke-pink roses and ugly ogling begonias.

"What's happened to me?" I said to myself. This was simply terrible—it was a Nightmare come true. I couldn't wake up—I seemed to be doomed to be a lousy crummy Cockroach. Thank goodness I'd locked my bedroom door—people were already waking up. First mother knocked on the door—reminding me to get up and have breakfast. Then my father pounding on the door—to wake me up and get me going to the office. Both insisted I get up right away and go to work—after all I supported the family as a Wal-Mart salesman. I was the sole support for my lovely family—they depended on me to pay the bills.

I'm being facetious, of course—they weren't really people. They were actually Insects—disguised as people. They were clever at it—somehow magically metamorphosing themselves into People. But they were really Insectoid Creatures—Pod People in Disguise. So was I—but we all kept it secret. How else can human beings survive—in such a Cockroach World? Let's face it—each family is a Termite Colony. A bee hive of poshlust primitive Breeders—bent on one thing. Doing what Breeders do best—insanely insouciantly turning the world into one big Cockroach Factory.

But something awful had happened to me—I'd lost the Grand Illusion of being Human. For some strange reason, the mysterious Veil of Creationism had been ripped asunder—revealing what actually was inside each and every one of us. A Cockroach. Was it bad karma or de-evolution that had done this horrible thing to me? Lying on my back—a carapace as hard as armor plating? My pitiful scrawny little legs—wiggling helplessly in bed? It was just awful—being a Cockroach in my own bed in my own room in my own home. A shudder of insectoid déjà vu went through me—my so-called monkey-brains had betrayed me. Traded me in on something—much more ancient and insectoid.

Pretty soon the Health-Insurance Inspector was pounding on my bedroom door. He threatened to cut off my healthcare benefits if I didn't get up and go to work. After all, half of what I earned went to support the insurance racket—all the administrators, salesmen and secretaries. Plus there was all the other insurance companies—house insurance, car insurance, life insurance, death insurance and fart insurance. As well as mortgage insurance and funeral insurance. It quickly all added up—until I was always in the hole and owed everybody money.

I was shocked when I tried to respond to all the people pounding on my bedroom door. It wasn't my normal voice—instead it came out as a nervous, insistent, distressed chirping sound like a cricket. It badly garbled my words—it was my new Cockroach syntax and semantics. I loudly cleared my throat—trying to give the impression to the people outside the door that I had a bone in my throat.

What was I supposed to do—spread my wings and fly away? Cockroaches could fly—maybe so could I? I tried to flip on my side somewhat gracefully—but rolled out of bed and flopped on the floor instead. I was totally shocked to see under my bed—my supposedly long-dead younger brother who'd disappeared last year. He yawned at me and told me the Awful Truth—"Now you know." For he too had been metamorphosed into a Cockroach—hiding away under my bed for all this time.

"You'll get used to it," he said. "Just keep the door locked and ignore the rest of Cockroachville. Sooner or later, they'll give up and leave us alone. They'll slide food under the door every once in awhile—and pretend we don't exist. It runs in the family, dontchaknow. Metamorphoses, that is. Once you've gone Cockroach—there's no turning back. I'll show you how to sneak out at night—and raid the Refrigerator."

Next the doorbell downstairs rang—it was the office manager. He demanded to know why I didn't show up for work on time. He joined my family knocking insistently at my bedroom door—all of them in a state of panic and distress. The manager threatened me with my job at Wal-Mart—after all the economy was in the pits. People were losing their jobs right and left. And I'd be the next to go—if I didn't hurry up and get to work. The manager even tried to peer through the keyhole—suspecting something suspicious going on inside my bedroom. After all, what was all that scratching sound going on inside there—and all that chirping coming and going?

Mother Dearest starting sobbing and crying—"There's something wrong with my Little Son in there. Surely he's ill or sick and dying? He always gets to work on time—we're just torturing him if he's not feeling well. Then my father agreed with her—shouting "Quick! Get a locksmith! There's dying animal in there—I can hear it inside my son's bedroom. All that insane insect jibber-jabbering—it just doesn't sound like him at all!!!"

I managed to somehow slide my Cockroach body—up the side of my chest of drawers, then along the wall, over to the locked door. My little Cockroach leg pads were exuding a sticky green substance along the floor. It stunk with a sickening skunk smell. It smelled like a strange combination of sweet licorice and rotten fish. And yet my new Cockroach nostrils quivered in almost orgasmic delight—at this new oozing smell of stinky Cockroach Ode de Cologne.

I finally got to the door but had no fingers to turn the doorknob or turn the key that locked the door. So I bent down and used my jaw—puncturing my tender palate painfully so that a black oily fluid oozed down my lips onto the floor. It hurt awfully bad, but somehow I managed to unlock the door—and show them the real me. The first one to see me was the busy-body Manager—who backed away in shock and disgust. Gone was his office manager braggadocio and Wal-Mart bourgeois hauteur. He vomited over the stairwell railing—looking back at my pitifully sad situation.

Mommy Dearest fainted in the hallway—while my father clenched his teeth and waved his hairy fist at me. But then uncertainly he looked at the manager and then his wife—finally breaking down in sobbing tears. Not knowing what to do—or what to say.

"Well," I said, rather calmly. "Let me get dressed after a nice shower and shave—and then I'll be off to work, dontchaknow. Business is business—and I'm just fine. Who needs one of those pesky reasonable accommodations? I'm not a cripple or handicapped person!!! Just wait and see—I'll be back to work in a jiffy!!! I'm more than grateful for my job at Wal-Mart—just give me a decent chance!!! I'm not a "cocky" Cockroach—I'm just your normal grateful run-of-the-mill Top-Notch Salesman!!! My condition surely won't hurt sales—gimme a chance, you'll see!!!"

Holding onto the doorknob with one of my twitching antennae—I pleaded with the Manager who was slowly backing down the staircase. Unfortunately, I tripped over my Mother who'd fainted in the hallway. I fell on the floor—face to face with my poor Mommy Dearest. Suddenly she woke up—and jumped to her feet. She started screaming—"Help!!! Help!! For Gawd's Sake!!!" She went running into the kitchen—knocking over a pot of coffee running down her leg. She screamed bloody murder—staring back at me.

"But Mother, dearest Mother"—I chirped sadly to her. "Don't you recognize your poor son—down here on the floor?" But it didn't do any good—the Manager was already creeping backwards very slowly down the staircase. His chin was on the banister—taking a last look back at me. I scuttled after him—I had a running start. My new Cockroach legs were perfect—for scuttling on slick hallways and linoleum floors.

I had to detain the Manager—and explain my Metamorphosis to him. I didn't want to lose my job—my family needed the money. The Manager looked at me as if he'd been suspecting the worst to happen—easing his way backwards down the stairwell to get away from me. Suddenly he lost his nerve—and turned around running pell-mell down the stairwell. He'd seen enough—to scare the shit out of him. There went my cushy job—at Wal-Mart!

My father was simply frightened to death of me—brandishing a butcher knife at me & trying to force me back into my bedroom. My hysterical mother threw open the kitchen window—and plunged 3 stories down into the dark alley below. Luckily she fell on top of her neighbor emptying her garbage—breaking her fall but breaking the other old lady's neck. Suddenly everything grew silent—the ratty old worn-out curtains in the kitchen were fluttering out the window in the breeze.

I could see it was going to be rough times ahead for me—me and my miserable Cockroach existence. After all my years as a successful up-and-coming Wal-Mart automobile and tires salesperson. But now I could barely manage to scuttle my way back to my room—sliding sideways through the doorway and closing the door with one of my gimpy legs. It was just awful. Metamorphosis wasn't for pansies—that's for sure. I was simply exhausted by—all that human angst and desperate despair out there. I collapsed immediately on the floor—trying to catch my poor Cockroach breath.

"Told you so," my young Cockroach brother said—scolding me for making such a family scene. "You've really blown our cover now, big time baby," he said.

Posted by pugetopolis at 1:06 AM · Monday, October 19, 2009

[DannyB II]

Conversations with Kafka

Gustav Janouch

(1953)

Translated by Goronwy Reese

New Directions, 1971, ISBN 0-8112-0071-X; Paperback, $10.95 [Browse/Purchase]

http://www.themodernword.com/kafka/kafka_crit_bio.html

This book is the source of a sizable amount of controversy—and it should be. On the one hand, no one is quite sure if what it says is true, but even if the book is untrue or misleading, it is not deliberately so. Conversations with Kafka is simply an act of exuberance on the part of someone who once knew Kafka, and since exuberance of this kind can always be forgiven, there is good reason to include Janouch's memoir in any list of biographies.
Gustav Janouch was a young poet whose father worked at the same insurance institute that employed Kafka. If his book is to be believed, upon meeting young Gustav, Kafka got quite a kick out of him, and talked to the young man frequently, especially when Kafka’s illness kept him bedridden in Prague. (In a 1921 letter, Kafka writes that his eager and histrionic young friend “professes to be happy but makes an at times frighteningly mixed-up impression, also looks very bad,” and wonders “what devil feeds this fire?”) During the course of their encounters, Janouch supposedly noted down all Kafka’s wise and cryptic remarks. Conversations with Kafka proposes to be a recording of all these remarks, published some thirty years later. In a second edition, more “conversations” were added – material Janouch claims had been misplaced the first time around. (Personally, I’m very skeptical that any human being can talk the way Kafka does in this book, but since Max Brod and Dora Diamant both thought it was authentic, I suppose my opinion doesn’t matter!)
No matter what one thinks of Janouch’s powers of recall, caution should be used when consulting his book as a guide to Kafka’s thoughts – Kafka’s own letters and diaries offer a much more reliable source. At best, treat Conversations with guarded suspicion; it is an uncertain document whose authenticity depends mostly upon the faith of the reader. (JN)

[DannyB II]

Conversations with Kafka

Gustav Janouch

(1953)

Translated by Goronwy Reese

New Directions, 1971, ISBN 0-8112-0071-X; Paperback, $10.95 [Browse/Purchase]

http://www.themodernword.com/kafka/kafka_crit_bio.html

This book is the source of a sizable amount of controversy—and it should be. On the one hand, no one is quite sure if what it says is true, but even if the book is untrue or misleading, it is not deliberately so. Conversations with Kafka is simply an act of exuberance on the part of someone who once knew Kafka, and since exuberance of this kind can always be forgiven, there is good reason to include Janouch's memoir in any list of biographies.
Gustav Janouch was a young poet whose father worked at the same insurance institute that employed Kafka. If his book is to be believed, upon meeting young Gustav, Kafka got quite a kick out of him, and talked to the young man frequently, especially when Kafka’s illness kept him bedridden in Prague. (In a 1921 letter, Kafka writes that his eager and histrionic young friend “professes to be happy but makes an at times frighteningly mixed-up impression, also looks very bad,” and wonders “what devil feeds this fire?”) During the course of their encounters, Janouch supposedly noted down all Kafka’s wise and cryptic remarks. Conversations with Kafka proposes to be a recording of all these remarks, published some thirty years later. In a second edition, more “conversations” were added – material Janouch claims had been misplaced the first time around. (Personally, I’m very skeptical that any human being can talk the way Kafka does in this book, but since Max Brod and Dora Diamant both thought it was authentic, I suppose my opinion doesn’t matter!)
No matter what one thinks of Janouch’s powers of recall, caution should be used when consulting his book as a guide to Kafka’s thoughts – Kafka’s own letters and diaries offer a much more reliable source. At best, treat Conversations with guarded suspicion; it is an uncertain document whose authenticity depends mostly upon the faith of the reader. (JN)