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“And one of these days, even this flu will have run its course. Really? Mary O’Rahilly asked. How can you be sure? The human race settles on terms with every plague in the end, the doctor told her. Or a stalemate, at the least. We somehow muddle along, sharing the world with each new form of life. Birdie frowned. This grippe’s a new form of life? Dr Lynn nodded as she covered a yawn with her hand. In a scientific sense, yes. A creature with no malign intention, only a craving to reproduce itself, much like our own.” — Emma Donoghue
And one of these days, even this flu will have run its course.
Really? Mary O’Rahilly asked. How can you be sure?
The human race settles on terms with every plague in the end, the doctor told her. Or a stalemate, at the least. We somehow muddle along, sharing the world with each new form of life.
Birdie frowned. This grippe’s a new form of life?
Dr Lynn nodded as she covered a yawn with her hand. In a scientific sense, yes. A creature with no malign intention, only a craving to reproduce itself, much like our own.