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I do not claim to tell a story as it ought to be told, but I know how a story should be told, for I have been in the company of expert storytellers for years. There are several kinds of stories, but only one difficult kind-the humorous story. The humorous story depends for its effect upon the manner of telling; the comic and the witty story, upon the matter.

A humorous story can be long and meander without arriving at a particular point, but comic and witty stories must be brief and end with a punch. The humorous story is a high and delicate art that requires an artist to tell, whereas the comic and witty stories do not need artistic skill. The humorous story is told gravely, with the teller attempting to conceal the humor. The comic storyteller, on the other hand, announces beforehand that the story is very funny and laughs at his own jokes.

Often, a rambling, humorous story may finish with a point, but the storyteller drops it casually, with the pretense that he does not know it is a nub. In contrast, the comic storyteller does not slur the nub; he shouts it at you and when he prints it he emphasizes the punchline with italics and exclamation marks, which is very depressing, and makes one want to renounce joking and lead a better life.

I do not claim to tell a story as it ought to be told, but I know how a story should be told, for I have been in the company of expert storytellers for years. There are several kinds of stories, but only one difficult kind-the humorous story. The humorous story depends for its effect upon the manner of telling; the comic and the witty story, upon the matter.

A humorous story can be long and meander without arriving at a particular point, but comic and witty stories must be brief and end with a punch. The humorous story is a high and delicate art that requires an artist to tell, whereas the comic and witty stories do not need artistic skill. The humorous story is told gravely, with the teller attempting to conceal the humor. The comic storyteller, on the other hand, announces beforehand that the story is very funny and laughs at his own jokes.

Often, a rambling, humorous story may finish with a point, but the storyteller drops it casually, with the pretense that he does not know it is a nub. In contrast, the comic storyteller does not slur the nub; he shouts it at you and when he prints it he emphasizes the punchline with italics and exclamation marks, which is very depressing, and makes one want to renounce joking and lead a better life.

I do not claim to tell a story as it ought to be told, but I know how a story should be told, for I have been in the company of expert storytellers for years. There are several kinds of stories, but only one difficult kind-the humorous story. The humorous story depends for its effect upon the manner of telling; the comic and the witty story, upon the matter.

A humorous story can be long and meander without arriving at a particular point, but comic and witty stories must be brief and end with a punch. The humorous story is a high and delicate art that requires an artist to tell, whereas the comic and witty stories do not need artistic skill. The humorous story is told gravely, with the teller attempting to conceal the humor. The comic storyteller, on the other hand, announces beforehand that the story is very funny and laughs at his own jokes.

Often, a rambling, humorous story may finish with a point, but the storyteller drops it casually, with the pretense that he does not know it is a nub. In contrast, the comic storyteller does not slur the nub; he shouts it at you and when he prints it he emphasizes the punchline with italics and exclamation marks, which is very depressing, and makes one want to renounce joking and lead a better life.

I do not claim to tell a story as it ought to be told, but I know how a story should be told, for I have been in the company of expert storytellers for years. There are several kinds of stories, but only one difficult kind-the humorous story. The humorous story depends for its effect upon the manner of telling; the comic and the witty story, upon the matter.

A humorous story can be long and meander without arriving at a particular point, but comic and witty stories must be brief and end with a punch. The humorous story is a high and delicate art that requires an artist to tell, whereas the comic and witty stories do not need artistic skill. The humorous story is told gravely, with the teller attempting to conceal the humor. The comic storyteller, on the other hand, announces beforehand that the story is very funny and laughs at his own jokes.

Often, a rambling, humorous story may finish with a point, but the storyteller drops it casually, with the pretense that he does not know it is a nub. In contrast, the comic storyteller does not slur the nub; he shouts it at you and when he prints it he emphasizes the punchline with italics and exclamation marks, which is very depressing, and makes one want to renounce joking and lead a better life.

Microorganisms were discovered in tiny cracks within 2-billion-year-old rock in South Africa, making it the oldest rock known to host life. This finding offers insights into Earth's early life and the search for extraterrestrial life.

Deep within Earth's crust, billions of resilient microbes survive in extreme isolation, far removed from sunlight, oxygen, and food sources, growing at a glacial pace over thousands or millions of years. Previously, the oldest microbial traces were found in 100-million-year-old seafloor sediments. However, Yohey Suzuki and his team at Tokyo University have pushed this record back by 2 billion years.

They extracted a 30-cm cylindrical rock core from the Bushveld Igneous Complex in South Africa, a 2-billion-year-old volcanic region. Upon slicing the core, they found microbial cells in tiny fractures. DNA staining and imaging with advanced microscopes confirmed the microbes were indigenous, with intact cell walls, suggesting they were active.

The researchers hypothesise that the microorganisms were carried into the rock via water shortly after its formation. Clay deposits in the fractures may have provided nutrients. These microbes, primitive in evolutionary terms, offer clues about Earth's earliest life forms and their evolution.

The study also has implications for Mars exploration. Suzuki notes similarities between the Bushveld rocks and Martian rocks, suggesting the same techniques could identify life on Mars.

"This underscores the deep subsurface as a crucial environment for microbial life," says Manuel Reinhardt from the University of Göttingen, while noting that microorganisms colonised the rocks after crack formation; the timing needs investigation.

Microorganisms were discovered in tiny cracks within 2-billion-year-old rock in South Africa, making it the oldest rock known to host life. This finding offers insights into Earth's early life and the search for extraterrestrial life.

Deep within Earth's crust, billions of resilient microbes survive in extreme isolation, far removed from sunlight, oxygen, and food sources, growing at a glacial pace over thousands or millions of years. Previously, the oldest microbial traces were found in 100-million-year-old seafloor sediments. However, Yohey Suzuki and his team at Tokyo University have pushed this record back by 2 billion years.

They extracted a 30-cm cylindrical rock core from the Bushveld Igneous Complex in South Africa, a 2-billion-year-old volcanic region. Upon slicing the core, they found microbial cells in tiny fractures. DNA staining and imaging with advanced microscopes confirmed the microbes were indigenous, with intact cell walls, suggesting they were active.

The researchers hypothesise that the microorganisms were carried into the rock via water shortly after its formation. Clay deposits in the fractures may have provided nutrients. These microbes, primitive in evolutionary terms, offer clues about Earth's earliest life forms and their evolution.

The study also has implications for Mars exploration. Suzuki notes similarities between the Bushveld rocks and Martian rocks, suggesting the same techniques could identify life on Mars.

"This underscores the deep subsurface as a crucial environment for microbial life," says Manuel Reinhardt from the University of Göttingen, while noting that microorganisms colonised the rocks after crack formation; the timing needs investigation.

Microorganisms were discovered in tiny cracks within 2-billion-year-old rock in South Africa, making it the oldest rock known to host life. This finding offers insights into Earth's early life and the search for extraterrestrial life.

Deep within Earth's crust, billions of resilient microbes survive in extreme isolation, far removed from sunlight, oxygen, and food sources, growing at a glacial pace over thousands or millions of years. Previously, the oldest microbial traces were found in 100-million-year-old seafloor sediments. However, Yohey Suzuki and his team at Tokyo University have pushed this record back by 2 billion years.

They extracted a 30-cm cylindrical rock core from the Bushveld Igneous Complex in South Africa, a 2-billion-year-old volcanic region. Upon slicing the core, they found microbial cells in tiny fractures. DNA staining and imaging with advanced microscopes confirmed the microbes were indigenous, with intact cell walls, suggesting they were active.

The researchers hypothesise that the microorganisms were carried into the rock via water shortly after its formation. Clay deposits in the fractures may have provided nutrients. These microbes, primitive in evolutionary terms, offer clues about Earth's earliest life forms and their evolution.

The study also has implications for Mars exploration. Suzuki notes similarities between the Bushveld rocks and Martian rocks, suggesting the same techniques could identify life on Mars.

"This underscores the deep subsurface as a crucial environment for microbial life," says Manuel Reinhardt from the University of Göttingen, while noting that microorganisms colonised the rocks after crack formation; the timing needs investigation.

Microorganisms were discovered in tiny cracks within 2-billion-year-old rock in South Africa, making it the oldest rock known to host life. This finding offers insights into Earth's early life and the search for extraterrestrial life.

Deep within Earth's crust, billions of resilient microbes survive in extreme isolation, far removed from sunlight, oxygen, and food sources, growing at a glacial pace over thousands or millions of years. Previously, the oldest microbial traces were found in 100-million-year-old seafloor sediments. However, Yohey Suzuki and his team at Tokyo University have pushed this record back by 2 billion years.

They extracted a 30-cm cylindrical rock core from the Bushveld Igneous Complex in South Africa, a 2-billion-year-old volcanic region. Upon slicing the core, they found microbial cells in tiny fractures. DNA staining and imaging with advanced microscopes confirmed the microbes were indigenous, with intact cell walls, suggesting they were active.

The researchers hypothesise that the microorganisms were carried into the rock via water shortly after its formation. Clay deposits in the fractures may have provided nutrients. These microbes, primitive in evolutionary terms, offer clues about Earth's earliest life forms and their evolution.

The study also has implications for Mars exploration. Suzuki notes similarities between the Bushveld rocks and Martian rocks, suggesting the same techniques could identify life on Mars.

"This underscores the deep subsurface as a crucial environment for microbial life," says Manuel Reinhardt from the University of Göttingen, while noting that microorganisms colonised the rocks after crack formation; the timing needs investigation.

This is a story from long ago, when the last remaining traces of the British still lurked in their old haunts among the pristine Himalayan hills of Darjeeling. These were the early fifties, in other words.

I would spend entire days at a small, dusty bookshop with a faded, green sign over it- a sign painted with gold letters that said: "Mr Mun-Chee's Books." The paint was chipped at many places; you could barely see the second 's'. The shabby old shop was located in a cul-de-sac, a few hundred meters away from my own home. But inside, it was another world. On the floor stood staggering, towering piles of books, yellowed and aged, and the shelves lining all the walls were crammed with journals, lexicons and biographies, dramas, each laboriously cataloged and meticulously arranged. Mr Mun-Chee dealt mostly in antique books; first editions of books, long forgotten, books one hardly ever encountered anymore. There were sixteen editions of Jane Eyre, twenty-two of The Pickwick Papers, and fifty of The Pilgrim's Progress. It was not famous, but it was unique; customers barely ever walked in, as it was so hidden away in a run-down neighborhood. Tabby, the black Tom, my only possession, and I, were only disturbed five times that we spent there. And we spent nearly an entire year at the shop.

The shop was my sanctuary. After the daily ordeal of school, I invariably called out to Tabby and set out for the shop, to read, read, read, with Tabby curled up around my legs.

This is a story from long ago, when the last remaining traces of the British still lurked in their old haunts among the pristine Himalayan hills of Darjeeling. These were the early fifties, in other words.

I would spend entire days at a small, dusty bookshop with a faded, green sign over it- a sign painted with gold letters that said: "Mr Mun-Chee's Books." The paint was chipped at many places; you could barely see the second 's'. The shabby old shop was located in a cul-de-sac, a few hundred meters away from my own home. But inside, it was another world. On the floor stood staggering, towering piles of books, yellowed and aged, and the shelves lining all the walls were crammed with journals, lexicons and biographies, dramas, each laboriously cataloged and meticulously arranged. Mr Mun-Chee dealt mostly in antique books; first editions of books, long forgotten, books one hardly ever encountered anymore. There were sixteen editions of Jane Eyre, twenty-two of The Pickwick Papers, and fifty of The Pilgrim's Progress. It was not famous, but it was unique; customers barely ever walked in, as it was so hidden away in a run-down neighborhood. Tabby, the black Tom, my only possession, and I, were only disturbed five times that we spent there. And we spent nearly an entire year at the shop.

The shop was my sanctuary. After the daily ordeal of school, I invariably called out to Tabby and set out for the shop, to read, read, read, with Tabby curled up around my legs.

This is a story from long ago, when the last remaining traces of the British still lurked in their old haunts among the pristine Himalayan hills of Darjeeling. These were the early fifties, in other words.

I would spend entire days at a small, dusty bookshop with a faded, green sign over it- a sign painted with gold letters that said: "Mr Mun-Chee's Books." The paint was chipped at many places; you could barely see the second 's'. The shabby old shop was located in a cul-de-sac, a few hundred meters away from my own home. But inside, it was another world. On the floor stood staggering, towering piles of books, yellowed and aged, and the shelves lining all the walls were crammed with journals, lexicons and biographies, dramas, each laboriously cataloged and meticulously arranged. Mr Mun-Chee dealt mostly in antique books; first editions of books, long forgotten, books one hardly ever encountered anymore. There were sixteen editions of Jane Eyre, twenty-two of The Pickwick Papers, and fifty of The Pilgrim's Progress. It was not famous, but it was unique; customers barely ever walked in, as it was so hidden away in a run-down neighborhood. Tabby, the black Tom, my only possession, and I, were only disturbed five times that we spent there. And we spent nearly an entire year at the shop.

The shop was my sanctuary. After the daily ordeal of school, I invariably called out to Tabby and set out for the shop, to read, read, read, with Tabby curled up around my legs.

This is a story from long ago, when the last remaining traces of the British still lurked in their old haunts among the pristine Himalayan hills of Darjeeling. These were the early fifties, in other words.

I would spend entire days at a small, dusty bookshop with a faded, green sign over it- a sign painted with gold letters that said: "Mr Mun-Chee's Books." The paint was chipped at many places; you could barely see the second 's'. The shabby old shop was located in a cul-de-sac, a few hundred meters away from my own home. But inside, it was another world. On the floor stood staggering, towering piles of books, yellowed and aged, and the shelves lining all the walls were crammed with journals, lexicons and biographies, dramas, each laboriously cataloged and meticulously arranged. Mr Mun-Chee dealt mostly in antique books; first editions of books, long forgotten, books one hardly ever encountered anymore. There were sixteen editions of Jane Eyre, twenty-two of The Pickwick Papers, and fifty of The Pilgrim's Progress. It was not famous, but it was unique; customers barely ever walked in, as it was so hidden away in a run-down neighborhood. Tabby, the black Tom, my only possession, and I, were only disturbed five times that we spent there. And we spent nearly an entire year at the shop.

The shop was my sanctuary. After the daily ordeal of school, I invariably called out to Tabby and set out for the shop, to read, read, read, with Tabby curled up around my legs.