In “Ebolanomics,” James Surowiecki writes for The New Yorker about why we don’t have an ebola vaccine yet. In short, because there aren’t enough (rich) people in developed countries who need it, so the pharmaceutical companies have no incentive to develop it. Or, no financial incentive, which is the only real incentive there is.
Ebola may or may not effect you, but the pending resistance to antibiotics sure might! And the same rules apply. Sure, lots of people with money need antibiotics and would be willing to pay for them. But we’d have to limit the use of a new antibiotic in order to maintain effectiveness, so by their nature, antibiotics limit return on research investment. Guess we’ll all just die instead.
But wait! There is some hope.
Marthine Satris has a very on-point essay up on the Millions today, called "Collared or Untied: Reflections on Work in American Culture
." She talks about the creation of the white-collar "knowledge worker" and its place in everything from Portlandia to Dickens, then looks at two new books about work: Biz Stone's memoir, the title of which I am too embarrassed to copy and paste, and Nikil Saval's Cubed
. Love you, Marthine.
Artist Molly Crabapple writes for VICE on how she feels about turning 30
now that she's done it, despite how much everyone made her worry about losing her youth, beauty, innocence, and so on.
Jane Catherine Lotter wrote her own obituary. It’s beautiful. What a cool lady. (“I was given the gift of life, and now I have to give it back. This is hard. But I was a lucky woman, who led a lucky existence, and for this I am grateful. I first got sick in January 2010. When the cancer recurred last year and was terminal, I decided to be joyful about having had a full life, rather than sad about having to die. Amazingly, this outlook worked for me. (Well, you know, most of the time.) Meditation and the study of Buddhist philosophy also helped me accept what I could not change. At any rate, I am at peace. And on that upbeat note, I take my mortal leave of this rollicking, revolving world-this sun, that moon, that walk around Green Lake, that stroll through the Pike Place Market, the memory of a child’s hand in mine.”)