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Живи вечно или умри пытаясь крысы e5
Ученые добились рекордной продолжительности жизни у крысы
Это Сима, 47-месячная и самая старая из когда-либо живших крыс линии Спрега-Доули, на которых часто ставят опыты. Прошлый рекорд - 45,5 месяцев (для серых крыс вообще рекорд составляет 4,5 года). Она - последний живой участник эксперимента, проводимого Гарольдом Кэтчером, директором по науке в стартапе Yuvan.
Изначально крыс было 16, по 8 в контрольной и опытной группе. Эксперимент начали, когда крысам было 24 месяца. Каждые 90 дней опытная группа получала некий концентрат плазмы крови молодых особей под названием Е5. Животные в опытной группе прожили от 38 до 41 месяцев, плюс Сима 47. Крысы из контрольной группы, получавшие плацебо, прожили от 34 до 38 месяцев. Кроме того, у животных из опытной группы сила хвата была в 2,8 раза выше, чем у контрольной. Эксперимент будет продолжаться, пока жива Сима.
Кэтчер подчеркивает (как и все они постоянно), что целью является не продление жизни, а продление здоровья и молодости, уменьшение страданий и болезней в позднем возрасте. Но все же добавляет, что если получится это, то получится и продлить жизнь.
После завершения этого эксперимента, вероятно, последует следующий, на большей выборке, а потом и до людей доберутся. Кэтчер считает, что если с людьми все получится, то плазму для получения Е5 можно будет брать у свиней со скотобоен.
Поскольку эксперимент еще не завершен, то и публикаций в рецензируемых журналах еще нет. Пока так:
Еще Кэтчер надеется в ближайшее время начать испытания на людях по местному применению E5. Он думает, что раз применение будет местное, контролирующие органы будут не так строги и дадут разрешение. На себе он его уже испытал:
Warhammer 40000 фэндомы eldrad ulthran Farseers Craftworld Eldar Aeldari без перевода
She had fought alongside Eldrad in battles and debated his cause in counselling Chambers across the galaxy, but never before had she been welcomed into his sanctum. The Opener of the Seventh Way hated the feeling that she was privileged in some way, that this act was a recognition of her status and importance. Even so, she could not help but feel she had been allowed to look upon something few others could, so she took the opportunity to examine her surroundings in some detail, memorising every piece of furniture and ornament, every artwork, in the hopes of deciphering meaning from them later.
The farseer’s tastes were eclectic – if one was too polite to say random, gauche and prolific. At least, such was Yvraine’s initial thought as she sat on a long couch, the trail of her immaculately tailored Commorraghan court dress heaped around her. She was reminded of the throne rooms of archons that had tried to woo her – romantically and politically – laden with trophies of conquests and subjugations, declarations of power and prestige.
Except that Eldrad barely glanced at them. And his displays, such as they were, had been confined to a set of three chambers that would barely qualify as an archon’s cloakroom. In fact, it was the lack of space, except for the high-vaulted ceilings customary in aeldari architecture, that reinforced the meandering, unkempt nature of the collection.
‘It is just…’ began Eldrad, sensing Yvraine’s thoughts as her eyes roamed the room. He searched for a suitable aeldari word and found nothing that quite fitted and so settled for one of the few perfect human words instead. ‘Stuff.’
Yvraine realised immediately what he meant. These were not heirlooms or trophies, treasured possessions or valued research materials. They were cultural accretions. The accumulation of a life that had spanned five generations of his people. They had been placed with no consideration at all, simply fitted into whatever space had seemed right at the time, and never given a second thought.
He had not even spared them the mental effort of how to discard them.
She stood and gracefully paced to the adjoining chamber for a better view, her long gown sweeping across the red floor tiles. Alorynis looked up from his position on the back of a couch, one eye open, and then settled again, uninterested in her exploration.
The room beyond the archway was almost full with miscellany from a hundred different cultures across a dozen races. Most of it was piled like the spoil heap of a museum, the effluvia of fashions, trends, fads and philosophies as old as Ulthwé itself.
‘Why?’ She did not turn as she asked the question. ‘What is the point of having so much…stuff?’
‘Badges of allegiance. Patronage of artists. Objects of psychic significance I used to trace the fates. Bequeathed artefacts. Ambassadorial bribes. Grave goods. The gifts of suitors. Items absent-mindedly left by visitors. Borrowed objects, equally forgotten.’ The farseer shrugged, his heavy robes barely moving with the gesture. Yvraine caught a tiny flutter of pain, of ancient aching in the body and soul, attuned to his mood and thoughts through their mutual contact with Ynnead. ‘I have another tower, a dozen rooms filled with such detritus of my long life.’
‘I forget how old you are,’ said Yvraine. She sat down again, flicking open her fan in the manner of a kabalite courtier. She regarded the seer over the serrated edge, her smirk hidden. ‘How very old you are.’
‘Old enough to know better than trade quips with the likes of you,’ replied Eldrad, humour in his voice.
[Excerpt | Rise of the Ynnari:Ghost Warrior]
#Лит-клуб написал сам английский
Впервые попробовал что-то написать, скромно прошу оценить
My words
I'm staring into endless void
Of starlight and of hope devoid,
But when I try to break away,
The skies look like this pit, the same.
Upon its gates the trial's held,
And I'm behind defendant's stand.
I prosecute, I judge, object,
But I will not myself defend.
"Not guilty" verdict was my bane,
Like groundhog's day returned again,
And now, not to overextend,
I'll put this fallacy to end.
I'm tired of seeing myself again
Each passing day grows my disdain
But now I'm ready to repent
And discontinue my descent.
Hypocrisy, and lies, and more...
All, that I usually abhor,
Has rooted deeply in my soul,
And undermined my better goal.
I'm not religious, but believe
In greater cause, for which to live
But what I've done and what I thought
Betrayed this dream that I have sought.
The ancient sins of human kin
Have left their marks upon my skin
And I am tainted by mistakes.
No turning back, there's no retake.
It's easier to count those falls,
Of which became I thoughtless thrall,
Than seek rare virtue, being made
By these obese and spoiled hands.
When did it start? When have I let
Become myself a sorry pet
Of Gluttony? Each bite and swig
Have made me closer to a pig
Than human; how could one not
Contempt and execrate such bloat?
And when I've tried to find a way
To purify myself, to stray
From path, which obviously leads
To only furthering the needs
I've yet again been weak, like moth
Before the flame, - I longed for Sloth.
"Tomorrow", - was my best excuse.
Why was I trying to refuse
From doing anything required
If even was not really tired?
Sloth doesn't let me go away
From childhood to this very day.
The time have passed, and then just once
I've won the prize, and in long pounce
Not me, but Pride has took the place
Upon the pedestal's embrace
And even now, then I require
Sentence, it reads back, admires
And wants all others do the same,
And me to thirst for praise and fame.
Another one, who lurks inside,
Is Greed, and comes like raging tide
The urge to have, to bear, to wield...
It's nearly hopeless not to yield.
And when this wave has briefly passed,
You always know - it won't be last.
And next one is, of course, the Lust.
I'd kept it still inside, but must
Confess, that every passing day
It's growing harder to obey
The mind, and not the primal needs.
I've all my life preferred to heed
And now I know, that would be best
To not put others to the test.
Who could have wanted being loved
By man like me? So here I stand
Away from others: to protect
Them from me, and to recollect.
These memories are dust for them;
They worth much more than any gem
For me; a subtle touch,
a look, a whisper is like glass,
Like stone, unflinching; so bypass
It could only sight. So, that is left for me, is dream,
And I suppress this wordless scream
Each time I see another eyes,
And dancing beauty, which there lies.
Because it's like a whip, a blaze,
It's better to avert my gaze
And yet again return to bog,
Where I, quite overtly, belong.
But it won't help - in sleepless cold
These damning eyes, and words untold
Return again, like sparking stars,
Reminding of my prison's bars.
It doesn't help that I'm not blind
And all the hands, which intertwine
Remind me every once and then
That better not to leave my den.
But I cannot, for I'm addict
To some I know; so I restrict
Myself; yet Envy's foiled deck
Is full of trumps, so now my neck
Is in its hands; its hard to breathe,
But I don't have a place to leave.
The only sin I haven't yet
Discovered, is Wrath: his hunting net
I somehow managed to avoid.
And this, once more, makes me annoyed:
If only I have had this flame,
Then, maybe, I could harness, tame
Its power; but, alas, it's false
And I still can't approach my goals.
This trial goes forever on,
And every word hits like a stone,
But I cannot - and won't - object.
I've only verdict to expect.
Each witness testifies and leaves,
then prosecution takes up leads...
How do I want to leave this booth!
But I cannot run from the truth.
Well, prosecution has this one.
And I don't want to spoil the fun
For him... or better said, for us?
I like it too, this big demise,
I both have fear and feeling joy.
In hands of judgement I'm a toy,
But even if my end is nigh,
For me it's honor to comply.
At last, the sentence is now set
I close my eyes, and last regrets
Let go my mind, so weak and frail.
Impatience grows, my Holy Grail
Lays peacefully aside the judge.
The time has come to end this grudge.
I know for sure, what's in the blank,
But these last moments are like ankh -
Symbolic hope, marvelous sign...
But here, in this forgotten shrine
I am alone. So bring it in.
Let's put an end to all my sins.
And be it venom, noose or blade
I'll gladly face my end of fate.
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