by A. J. Jacobs
I’m honestly not sure how this notion popped into my head. My mom probably had something to do with it, seeing as she was only slightly less enamored of me than I was of myself. And it’s true, I did pretty well on tests, sometimes notching up the highest score in the class. As my mom likes to remind me, on one geography quiz, I got so cocky, I wrote “New Joizy” instead of “New Jersey.” Ha! In any case, with my handful of good fourth-grade test scores as evidence, I somehow made the logical deduction that no other ten-year-old on planet Earth was my intellectual equal. It’s a leap, yes. But in my defense, I hadn’t taken any high-level statistics courses. At the time, it just somehow made sense. I could just feel that I was unique in some way (again, my mom told me so). And since I wasn’t the best-looking boy or the best hockey player or the best glee club singer, that left intelligence. So what if I didn’t always get the highest score? Or even very often? That could be explained away. Maybe I wasn’t trying, or maybe the other kids cheated. Deep down, I knew I was top intellectual dog.
Let me tell you, though: being the smartest boy in the world wasn’t easy. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want this. On the contrary, it was a huge burden. First, there was the task of keeping my brain perfectly protected. My cerebral cortex was a national treasure, a masterpiece, the Sistine Chapel of brains. This was not something that could be treated frivolously. If I could have locked it in a safe, I would have. Instead, I became obsessed with brain damage.
Danger lurked everywhere. If my skull was touched, that might jostle the brain and squash a few valuable dendrites. So no one was allowed contact with anything above my neck—that was the holy of holies. No friendly pats on the head. No soccer, with its insane practice on bonking the ball on your pate. And if Grandma came in for a kiss on the forehead, I would dart my head like Sugar Ray Leonard. If I’d known then about the annelid worm—which can turn its skin cells into brain cells—I would have been extremely jealous.
Even seeing other people get brain damage flustered me. When I was eleven, I went to the movie Hair with my mother at New York’s Ziegfeld Theater, and was horrified to watch Treat Williams and his unshowered cohorts smoking pot in a Central Park tunnel. I could almost hear their poor brain cells scream for mercy. “Can we go?” I asked my mom before the first “Aquarius” refrain. “I don’t feel so good.”
Drug-addled musicals aside, the thing that really unhinged me was car rides. My fourth-grade biology teacher told us that the carbon monoxide produced by cars can cause brain damage. That was it, just a throwaway line inserted into a lecture on mammalian bloodstreams. But to me, carbon monoxide became the number one enemy, my white whale, the Joab to my Absalom.
I became a window Nazi. A window had to be cracked at all times so that my brain could get fresh oxygen to dilute that nefarious carbon monoxide. It could be forty below zero and we could be driving through Vostok Station; I’d still roll down the glass in the backseat of the Plymouth Valiant.
“Can you please shut that? It’s really cold,” said Mom.
“Just a little fresh air, Mom,” I’d say.
“That fresh air is freezing my eyelids together.”
“Roll up the window, A.J.,” my dad said.
I’d roll it up. I’d wait about two minutes, till the conversation had drifted to some other topic, like which fast food chain most deserved our patronage, then I’d slowly—in barely noticeable spurts—lower the window again.
“Dammit, A.J.!” my mom would say, as her lower lip turned cobalt blue. “Please put up the window.”
I was smart enough to know that I shouldn’t tell anyone the reason I needed that icy air. No need to spill the secret that I was the genius of all geniuses, the Leonardo da Vinci of the 1980s. That would just inspire envy and skepticism. So I’d just stare at the closed window and stew. If ten minutes went by without my lungs getting fresh air, I panicked. I needed to make sure the monoxide hadn’t eaten my cranium. For some reason, and this continues to baffle me, I thought the best way to test whether my mind was still in peak form was to create new and bizarre racquet sports. That was my homespun IQ test. So I made up racquet sports involving big racquets, tiny racquets, balls the size of refrigerators, balls the size of pencil erasers. There were racquet sports involving garage doors, bathroom sinks, and telecommunications satellites. Strange, I know. But it made me feel better.
Not counting my vigilance against brain damage, there were plenty of other strains associated with being the smartest boy in the world. It was a huge responsibility, nurturing this amazing organ of mine. I knew someday soon I’d have to invent something, cure something, or write something of grand significance. I knew I should be feeding my mind the highest-quality nourishment, like physics textbooks or Dostoyevsky, but instead I was keeping it on a starvation diet by watching Gilligan’s Island reruns. Even back then, I had trouble resisting pop culture’s pull. I felt guilty every time I watched those hapless castaways. Not that it stopped me, but I just couldn’t enjoy Thurston Howell’s lockjaw one-liners like my lucky bastard classmates with their slightly above-average intelligence.
I remember the day I decided I wasn’t the smartest boy in the world. I was watching TV—not sitcom reruns, for once, but a documentary on Hasidic Jews. The footage showed a room of young Hasidic boys about the same age as I was, at their desks, their noses buried in books. The narrator intoned that these boys studied for sixteen hours a day. I was blown away. Sixteen hours a day! My God. Even though I knew I had the initial advantage of the highest-quality brain, these boys studied so much, they must have pulled several lengths ahead of me in the intelligence horse race. I just couldn’t compete with sixteen hours a day. This was an immense relief. A whole new day. I started watching Gilligan and Ginger and all the rest with impunity.
In the years that followed, I became increasingly less impressed with my own intelligence. My perceived place on the bell curve drifted farther and farther to the left. I went from being, in my mind, much smarter than my dad to a little smarter, to just as smart, and then, finally—if I had to guess when, it’d be somewhere in my freshman or sophomore year at college—less smart than my dad, the author of those imposing twenty-four books.
In retrospect, the revelation about my intelligence—the one inspired by the studious Hasidic boys—wasn’t exactly the product of flawless logic. There’s not a perfect correlation between hours of reading and intelligence. Perhaps there’s very little correlation at all. Of course, I do realize I’m committing the same fallacy right now, twenty-three years later. Deep down, I know that reading the encyclopedia and jamming my brain full of facts won’t necessarily allow me to reclaim my title as the smartest person alive. I know my quest is a bit of a lark. I know it’s got a whiff—or maybe more than a whiff—of the absurd.
And just in case I didn’t know, I’m constantly being told this by friends and family. My aunt Marti, who lives in Berkeley and is always ready to voice her skepticism, whether it’s about our phallocentric government or our reliance on oppressive Western medicine, confronted me in a phone call the other day.
“Now, why are you reading the encyclopedia again?”
“I’m trying to become the smartest man in the world.”
“And how are you defining intelligence? Just the amount of information you have?”
“Yup.”
“Well, that’s not very intelligent.”
“Well, I haven’t gotten to the letter I.”
It’s an easy response, but there’s something to it. I’m not so deluded that I think I’ll gain one IQ point for every thousand pages. I don’t honestly think that the folks from the MacArthur genius grant will be kicking down my door. But I also believe that there is some link between knowledge and intelligence. Maybe knowledge is the fuel and intelligence is the car? Maybe facts are the flying buttresses and intelligence is the cathedral? I don’t know the exact relation. But I’m sure the Britannica, somewhere in those 44 million words, will help me figure it out.
aug
ury
You can predict the future based on dice (cleromancy), dots on paper (geomancy), fire and smoke (pyromancy), entrails of sacrificed animals (haruspicy), animal livers (hepatoscopy), or shoulder blades of animals (scapulimancy). They had me up until the crazy shoulder blades part.
Aztec
The A’s have been lousy with Aztecs. They popped up under all sorts of headings, including American Peoples, Arts of Native and Alcohol and Drug Consumption (they called magic mushrooms “God’s flesh”). And here they are again, under plain old Aztec. Thanks to the Britannica, I now know the Aztecs prophesied the destruction of the earth followed by an age when humans become monkeys. Hey, that’s the plot of Planet of the Apes! Damn you, Hollywood! You stole the idea from the Aztecs. Damn you to hell!
I polish off the monkey-fixated Aztecs, and just like that, I’m done with the A’s. It’s been two weeks, and I am now one twenty-sixth of my way to the summit. I have absorbed 3.8 percent of all the knowledge in the world. I slam my Britannica shut and do a little touchdown dance. Yes! I am the alpha male.
And yet, do I feel smarter? Have I proved my skeptical aunt Marti wrong yet? Well, I do know a lot more information, but in a way, I’m feeling more insecure than ever. I’m worried I’m not intelligent enough to process all my data into some coherent conclusion or worldview. I’m worried I’m not focusing on the right things. Take Aristotle. Here’s one of the great philosophers of all time. I should be drinking in his theories on morality and epistemology. Instead, I’m fascinated by Aristotle’s obscure maxim about marriage: that men should be thirty-seven and women should be eighteen when they take their vows. Aristotle came up with that theory because—now here’s an odd coincidence—when he was thirty-seven he married an eighteen-year-old woman. I like that he rationalized his dirty-old-man behavior with a grand philosophical statement. There are a lot of Aristotelians in Hollywood, I chuckle to myself. So that’s the profound conclusion I draw from the essay on Aristotle. That he likes young ladies.
Maybe by the end of the Bs I’ll be smart enough to concentrate on the Big Picture.
B
Bacon, Francis
I am making sacrifices in my quest for knowledge. No one can argue with that. I wake up early, about 7 A.M., which is the middle of the night for most journalists. I read in the morning, I read at night. I’m on the verge of losing a half dozen friends because I’ve got no time to call them back. And worst of all, I’ve missed several hours of crucial television, including what Julie tells me was a particularly riveting Real World episode in which an enraged girl throws a fork at another cast member.
So it’s tough, this pursuit of intelligence. But I feel humbled by Sir Francis Bacon, who made the ultimate sacrifice. He died in the quest for knowledge, a martyr to the cause.
I hadn’t remembered much about Bacon from school, except that he’s suspected by some to be the real Shakespeare. Also, he wore a huge ruffled collar. So, as you can see, it was nice to get a refresher course.
I learned Bacon—a 17th-century intellectual and politician—had a troubled public life. He was convicted of taking bribes in 1621 and thrown in the Tower of London. His defense: yes, he took the bribes, but they didn’t affect his judgment (not his best moment). As a scholar, he wrote cleverly about language and the philosophy of science.
But my favorite fact about Bacon, the one that will stick with me, is how he died. It happened in March of 1626, north of London. Bacon was riding along in his horse and carriage when he suddenly decided he needed to know whether snow delays putrefaction. So he abruptly stopped his carriage, hopped out to buy a hen, and stuffed it with snow. Unfortunately, this caused him to be seized with a sudden chill, which brought on bronchitis, and he died soon after at a friend’s house.
This, to me, is a noble anecdote. Okay, it’s a little embarrassing that his death involved frozen poultry. And maybe he displayed a touch of sadism—I’m just hoping the poor hen wasn’t alive when he rammed snow into its gullet. But there’s also something great about it. Bacon had such an itch for knowledge, he was so giddy about an idea, that he just went bonkers and bolted out of his carriage. The man couldn’t wait another second to find out more about antiputrefaction techniques. I find this inspiring. If you’re going to give your life for a cause, furtherance of knowledge has got to be in the top two or three. In Bacon’s honor, I put down the Britannica and go defrost a frozen bagel in the microwave.
baculum
This is the official name for a penis bone. The baculum can be found in hedgehogs, shrews, and bats. Interesting. I had no idea. The only time I’d ever even encountered the concept of a penis bone was during conversations with my college friend Ileana. Ileana had a very casual relationship with the truth. She liked to tell me stories about the pet llamas in her New York apartment, and her father’s love affair with singer Robert Goulet. And once, she told me a detailed story about how her brother had broken his penis bone. He had been standing naked in front of an open window admiring the view from his hotel room, when—whoom—the window slid down and snapped his penis bone right in half.
“It’s been three months, and he still has to wear the penis cast,” she told me. “I was the first one to sign it.”
“But Ileana,” I said, “the penis doesn’t have a bone.”
“Oh,” she said. That was it—no apology, no attempt at backtracking, just an “oh.” Now, after reading about the baculum, I realize that Ileana’s brother was probably a hedgehog.
baldness
My newfound knowledge bubbles up in my brain at strange times. In the elevator up to work, I stood behind an Asian man who happened to be bald. That’s odd, I thought to myself. According to the encyclopedia, baldness in Asians is rare. It’s rare in Asians and Native Americans. I guess what we have here is one of the unlucky few Asians who couldn’t hold on to his follicles. I feel like giving him my condolences.
Barnum, P. T.
When he was eighty-one, Barnum fell gravely ill. At his request, a New York newspaper printed his obituary in advance so that he might enjoy it. That’s brilliant. In fact, that could be a nice new revenue stream for newspapers—they could sell obits to people on their deathbeds. The encyclopedia is giving me lots of good ideas.
bearbaiting
A popular form of entertainment in 16th-century England. A bear was tied to a stake, and trained dogs were set upon it. Other variations included a bull tied to a stake and a pony with an ape tied to his back. Sounds like Fox has itself a new TV show!
bedlam
My growing collection of facts keeps overlapping with my life. I knew it would happen, but I’m surprised at the frequency. Several times an hour, a little internal “ding” goes off in my mind. I step into the bathtub for a shower, and I flash to the 17th-century health clinics where people stayed in baths for days at a time. I have my cereal, and I’m reminded of the world’s longest breakfast table, in Battle Creek, Michigan. I read about a Boy Scouts controversy in the newspaper and I think of the scout movement’s founder, Robert Baden-Powell, who also, incidentally, pioneered the use of hot-air balloons in military spying.
These little sparks happen so often that I couldn’t possibly work them all into conversation. Which, I’m sure, is a great relief to those around me. But I can mention some of them—and I do. Like today at the office.
I wander in to chat with my fellow editor Mark. Mark is the office intellectual—a tall, brilliant Texan with a floppy Hugh Grant haircut. He’s been working at Esquire an astounding fourteen years, a fact that causes plenty of amusement among the rest of the staff. “Mark, weren’t you Hemingway’s editor?” “Mark, were you at the Rita Hayworth photo shoot?” That kind of thing.
So I make my way into Mark’s office, which is difficult, since he hasn’t thrown away a book in his fourteen years. The floor is covered with waist-high piles of volumes by Philip Roth and Saul Bellow. It’s bedlam in there (a word, by the way, that comes from Bethlehem Royal Hospital, a notorious London insane asylum
).
“So that was a great event last night,” I say.
“A really great event,” agrees Mark.
The previous night we had been to an Esquire function that featured a speech by a budding politician named Cory Booker. Cory spoke passionately about the inner city, and ended his speech with a long, inspiring quote from James Baldwin.
“God, you have to love that James Baldwin quote.”
“One of Esquire’s own, that James Baldwin,” says Mark. Having been at Esquire since the quill pen era, Mark has also become the office historian.
“Really?” I say. “I didn’t know that.”
“Yes, Esquire published ‘The Fire Next Time.’ ”
Huh? I had just read the Baldwin essay in the encyclopedia, and I happen to remember that “The Fire Next Time”—Baldwin’s groundbreaking article on civil rights—first appeared in The New Yorker. Usually, I keep my mouth clamped and listen in awe to Mark. He’s a great talker—he often speaks in full paragraphs—and he knows his stuff, especially about magazine history. But this particular fact he did not know. And this was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.
“Actually, I think that appeared in The New Yorker,” I say.
“No, it was Esquire.”
“No, I’m pretty sure it’s The New Yorker.”
“It wasn’t The New Yorker,” says Mark. Then he wavers: “Well, maybe it was The Progressive. But it certainly wasn’t The New Yorker.”
I scurry back to my office and look up Baldwin on the Internet. Yup. “The Fire Next Time” appeared in The New Yorker. I e-mail Mark the news, concluding my note with some helpful advice: “Also, if you have any questions for Bavarian cream pie or beavers, just let me know.”
So I had done it. I had made my first correction, and I corrected a brilliant man, to boot. I felt great. Well, actually I felt like kind of a dick. But also great.