The Know-it-All: One Man's Humble Quest to Become the Smartest Person in the World

by A. J. Jacobs

  She pauses. A very long and painful pause. "Be glad you got good SAT scores."

  disease

  I think about disease a lot. Some people--namely my wife, friends, coworkers, family, and strangers I've just met--call me a hypochondriac. And I admit, I am careful. I avoid handshakes, preferring the head nod or, if necessary, the hug (backs of shirts seem far less likely to harbor germ colonies). I wash my hands till they're chapped white. When I clink glasses for a toast, I make sure to clink the base of the glass so there's no bacteria transfer. So yes, I'm a tad more observant than your average man.

  But I wouldn't call myself a hypochondriac, for one reason: I actually do get sick at least twice a month. I swear. My immune system puts up about as much of a fight as your typical French general, such as Achille Bazaine, who surrendered 140,000 troops during the Franco-Prussian War, a strategy that got him sentenced to twenty years in French prison. Viruses, bacteria, funguses--my white blood cells welcome them all. One of my proudest accomplishments at Entertainment Weekly was to catch several colds from celebrities, including one from Ellen DeGeneres and another from Ernest Borgnine. I felt just as crappy, but at least I had celebrity germs, which had no doubt lived a glamorous life, probably doing some replicating at an awards ceremony or at Jack Nicholson's pool.

  The Britannica isn't necessarily very good for someone like me. Even before the disease section itself, every two or three pages I learned about some horrible new way to die. This set of books harbors enough illnesses to infest a million petri dishes.

  A couple of days ago, right on schedule, I got sick. I shuffled into the living room.

  "I'm sick again," I said.

  "I'm sorry, honey," said Julie.

  "Do I have a waxy pallor?"

  "What?"

  "A waxy pallor. Do I have one?"

  "Not more than normal."

  "Good. Because that would mean I have aplastic anemia, which I really don't need right now."

  I was sort of joking. But at the same time, I have all these symptoms and diseases floating in my brain. And without really wanting to, every time I start to feel my health go south, I start on a mental checklist of the afflictions I've most recently read about.

  Is my urine black? No. Then I probably don't have blackwater fever. So that's a relief.

  My joints don't ache, so I don't have bursitis in any of its forms--tennis elbow, housemaid's knee, soldier's heel, or the dreaded weaver's bottom.

  I look at my hands. My fingers aren't involuntarily flexing in a slow and purposeless manner, therefore I probably am not suffering from athetosis. All right.

  I pinch my skin. It isn't loose about my face, so I don't have cutis laxa.

  I feel good about my chances with Chediak-Higashi syndrome, an immune disorder, since only two hundred cases have ever been reported.

  I also probably don't have stinking smut, since it's mostly confined to wheat and rye. But I do like it, because it's the dirtiest-sounding disease thus far. It sounds like something Tony Soprano would say to one of his wayward captains: "Don't you ever fuck with me again, you stinking smut!"

  I might, on the other hand, have Andersen's disease, which causes lethargy. But I probably just have a cold.

  So this is the problem. I have all this new information to worry about--including some new ones in the disease entry itself--and yet I end up doing the same thing: eating some low-fat chicken soup, swallowing some zinc pills, and getting better two days later.

  Sometimes I try to look at the ocean of diseases out there in a positive light. I tell myself, sure, I get sick more often than I change my razor, but I should be proud of my immune system for all the evil organisms it does manage to keep out. At least it has denied entry to Malta fever, also known as brucellosis, which causes excessive sweating. Go, microphages! But then I start to focus on Malta fever, which does sound horrible, and I get all worried again. So many diseases, so few white blood cells.

  Disney, Walt

  Disney's early collaborator was Ub Iwerks--perhaps the Britannica's best name so far. Ub and Walt's first creation was Oswald the Rabbit, but they had to abandon him in a copyright dispute. Another reminder of how different life could be: Rabbiteers, thousands of kids wearing rabbit hats, Oswald-the-rabbit politics.

  divorce

  The easiest divorce around: Pueblo Indian women leave their husband's moccasins on the doorstep and--that's it--they're divorced. Simple as that. No lawyers, no fault, no socks, just shoes.

  dogs

  Dogs have a third eyelid to protect the eyeball from irritants, which seems like a damn good idea, and makes me quite jealous.

  Incidentally, my own eyes and their paltry two eyelids have become a subject of much concern among my family. My bloodshot left eye has faded to its traditional white, thanks no doubt to Julie's carrots. But my mom is still worried about my extreme reading habits. She's bought me a lamp called Happy Eyes. It's an imposing device--ivory-colored, mammoth, with several moving parts, it looks like it would be right at home in an ob-gyn exam room. But I've come to love that lamp. Its rays are supposed to mimic those of the sun--hence the Happy Eyes label--though it reminds me more of the light I used to have over my pet turtle's tank when I was a kid. Regardless, if I'm going to push my pupils to the limit, if I'm going to force them to run a marathon every day, the least I can do is give them the equivalent of a good pair of Nikes. I recommend Happy Eyes to anyone undertaking this task.

  While we're on the subject, I've learned some other important reading techniques. First, the proper stance. Since the Britannica's a cinder block of a book, you can't treat it like your average Patricia Cornwell novel and hold it in the air. I tried, and my wrist paid the price. You need support. After much experimentation, I've found the best method is to lay the encyclopedia on your lap and grasp the edges with both hands, sort of like a steering wheel.

  As for the equipment, you'll want to wear loose, comfortable clothing, nothing that will constrain your page-turning ability. An old college sweatshirt is fine. You should drink lots of fluids, load up on protein, and--I can't stress this enough--make sure to take frequent breaks. You've got to give your brain a rest from the heavy lifting. I like to keep some Us Weeklys nearby, so that I can relax with an article discussing Julia Roberts's midriff.

  I do most, maybe 90 percent, of my Britannica reading on a fluffy white couch in the extra bedroom of our apartment. But I've read it all over: in the bathroom, a car's backseat, a car's front seat, a movie theater, a restaurant, a bar, a lobby, an office, a doctor's waiting room. I've got shoulder strain from lugging the thing around New York in a black bag.

  I've taken it on the Manhattan subway, and though the lighting isn't ideal, I was pleasantly surprised that I got no strange looks from my fellow passengers. When there's a homeless guy in the same car shouting that Pat Sajak is the second coming of Christ, a man reading an oversized book with some gold embossing on the spine isn't going to attract a lot of attention. New York taxicabs, on the other hand, are much less hospitable. The jouncing over potholes will make you sick. I also strongly recommend against reading the encyclopedia on the Stairmaster. You can strain your mind or you can strain your body, but it's not a good idea to do both. Plus, getting sweat drops on the Britannica is just plain wrong.

  Everyone asks me, do I skim? Well, it depends on how you define skimming. This I can assure you: I have cast my eyes on every word in the encyclopedia so far. I have not comprehended every word, but I have seen every word. Sometimes, yes, I zone out and merely sweep my eyes swiftly from left to right across the lines as I think about whether we need to get some more Tropicana orange juice or that I forgot to call my sister back, only to snap to attention a few minutes later.

  I'm particularly susceptible to this autopilot mode while reading the Macropaedia. For those who don't pay proper attention to encyclopedia structure, the Britannica is divided into two main sections: the Micropaedia and the Macropaedia. The Micropaedia accounts for twelve volumes, and it
contains thousands of little snippet-sized articles--a couple of paragraphs, maybe a page or two maximum. The Macropaedia--which clocks in at seventeen volumes--takes a handful of the Micro's articles (accounting, China, evolution) and offers the extended dance mix. The Macro articles can be brutal, impenetrable, and they take just shy of a Cryptozoic eon (3 billion years) to read. The one on digestion and digestive systems droned on for thirty-nine pages. The one on continental land-forms had me pleading for mercy at fifty-six pages.

  I rotate between the two--I'll read a few hundred pages from the Micropaedia's Bs, then a couple of hundred from the Macropaedia's Bs, after which I'll switch back to the Micropaedia for still more Bs. Of the two, I much prefer the Micro. It's more like the front section of a magazine--the section I work on at Esquire--as opposed to the daunting features in the middle. Right now, I'm in the Micro, and am going to dive into the section on the...

  dragonfly

  It can eat its own weight in thirty minutes. Just like Roger Ebert.

  Damn. I should be beyond Ebert jokes by now--I'm in the Ds, for crying out loud--but those pop culture references die hard.

  dress and adornment

  One of the sad ironies of my life is that I work at Esquire, an arbiter of men's fashion, and yet I'm a shockingly bad dresser. I've got all the fashion sense of agricultural zealot Johnny Appleseed, who liked to wear an old coffee sack with holes cut out for arms.

  It wasn't always this way. At one point in my mid-twenties, I paid a lot of attention to clothes. I got myself a closet full of tight trousers, some even in primary colors, and a bunch of fancy shirts with buttons made of things like mother-of-pearl. Then I got married. My only criterion now is that all my clothes should feel like pajamas, which can cause some problems at work. I wear these sneaker clogs around the office that would barely be acceptable at a beach cabana. Of course, when I go in to meet with my boss--an appropriately natty man--I make sure to change into my professional black leather shoes. One day last year, I got confused by all the trips back and forth to his office, and ended up taking a meeting with my fancy black shoe on my left foot, and my sneaker clog on the right, like a scene out of a seventies sitcom. And you wonder why I haven't gotten a promotion in three years.

  All of this is to say that I took some twisted pleasure in the life of Beau Brummel, the biggest dandy in the Britannica, who gets a special shout out in the dress and adornment section. I had vaguely heard of Brummel, but knew practically nothing. Here's what I found out: Brummel became famous for his good fashion at Eton, then added "wit" to his resume at Oxford. He moved to London in 1799, befriended the Prince of Wales, set up a bachelor establishment, and was soon recognized as high society's arbiter of good taste, parading about town in his cravats and silk stockings and pantaloons. Brummel "was so concerned with style that he had his coat made by one tailor, his waistcoat by another, and his breeches by a third.... His neckcloth was so elaborate and voluminous that his valet sometimes spent a whole morning getting it to sit properly." The prince himself copied Brummel's look.

  Then, in 1812, things started to unravel. Brummel quarreled with the prince (his tongue was "too sharp," says the Britannica), blew through his thirty-thousand-pound inheritance on gambling debts and those damn white cravats. And on the night of May 16, 1816, Britain's most celebrated fop fled to France to avoid his creditors. Brummel struggled on for years in France, and was briefly imprisoned there, also for debt.

  And here's the sentence I know I shouldn't enjoy, but I do: "He soon lost all his interest in dress; his personal appearance was slovenly and dirty, and he began to live in fantasies of the past." I feel bad for him, but it's a good fact to have in my plumed hat: even the quintessential dandy eventually gave up on fashion. This I can tell Julie next time she tells me I look like a homeless man.

  duality

  So far, the Britannica has been intermittently useful. It's given me perspective on my life--sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse--loaded me up with cocktail party conversation, and helped Julie solve 42-Down. But what about the stuff my old boss at the Antioch Ledger newspaper called "news you can use"? What about good, solid how-to hints?

  Well, to its credit, the Britannica isn't entirely lacking in handy suggestions. For instance, there's a nice write-up on how to protect yourself from painful g-forces when in a spaceship (just turn sideways to the rocket's thrust). And there's another on how to toss a boomerang properly (throw it downward, snapping your wrist right before release). And if you ever see a snake but aren't sure whether it's the deadly coral snake, just remember this poem about its coloring ("Red touching yellow, dangerous fellow"). But so far this winter, I've had minimal contact with boomerangs, acceleration stress, and coral snakes.

  Which brings me to tonight's dinner. Finally, a breakthrough I've been waiting for, the first truly practical application of my knowledge. It's a good feeling. Jolly good, even. Here's what happened: My assistant Genevieve, a proud native of Anchorage (she smiles condescendingly whenever we whine about New York winters), sent me Alaskan crab legs as a Christmas gift. Julie is delighted, and has invited her friend Anna over for some crab soup.

  "You know," I say, hovering around the kitchen as Julie puts the finishing touches on the soup, "the giant crab in Japan can grow to over twelve feet long."

  "Wow, twelve feet," says Julie. Her tone is that of a mother whose four-year-old has toddled in to display a particularly large strand of drool. Anna nods her head, pretending to be impressed as well.

  "Okay, soup's on!" says Julie. She ladles out bowls for each of us. "Now the recipe suggests coriander on top. You want?"

  "Sure, I'll take some," says Anna.

  "Wait," I say. I pause dramatically. "I think 'coriander' is the British word for cilantro."

  "Really?" says Julie.

  "I think so," I say.

  As Julie and I both know too well, Anna despises cilantro with an intensity most people reserve for war criminals or David Arquette, a fact we've learned from several unpleasant guacamole incidents at Mexican restaurants. Julie dips her finger in her bowl--which she has already sprinkled with chopped coriander leaves--and puts a little on her tongue.

  "He's right. It's cilantro."

  "Read about that just the other day."

  "Huh. I never knew," Julie says. "I thought it looked familiar."

  Julie had asked the grocery guy for fresh coriander, and he had shown her the cilantro leaves. And now, I had cleared up the confusion. I had exposed this duality.

  "Thanks, A.J." says Anna.

  " 'Tis a pleasure, gov'nor!" I respond.

  "Good job, honey! I'm proud of you."

  This is a big moment. Huge. My newly acquired knowledge has actually had a beneficial impact. It has saved a close friend from an unpleasant herb-related experience and earned the respect of my wife.

  "Blimey, I need a spoon!" I say.

  "Okay," says Julie, "enough with the British talk."

  Dundatree

  This the Britannica defines as "the mythical country where large-footed dictators come from." Huh. That's an strange concept, I think to myself. I've never even heard of it.

  The reason I've never heard of Dundatree is that...I dreamed it. I read so much that it's invaded my sleep. I can't escape those endless descriptions and dates, that little ten-point Times font text, the fancy gold embossing, not even when I close my eyes. And now I'm making up my own facts, which I'm worried I'll confuse with actual facts.

  Dyer, John

  I'm relatively sure I didn't dream this British poet up. He was born in 1699 and he wrote the following verse:

  A little rule, a little sway, A sunbeam in a winter's day, Is all the proud and mighty have Between the cradle and the grave.

  Jesus. That's disheartening.

  On the one hand, I suppose it's a wisely humbling poem. So what if Donald Trump has dozens of menservants to dust his gold-plated toilet plungers? All he really has is a little rule, a little sway, between the crad
le and the grave. But on the other hand, the verse plays to my cynical side, the whatever-you-do-doesn't-

  matter-because-you'll-eventually-die side, which isn't a healthy mind-set. I need better wisdom.

  E

  Earth

  It's Friday night, and Julie and I are out to dinner with our friends Lisa and Paul. Julie met Lisa at camp, and they've remained close for a couple of decades. Lisa looks a bit like Audrey Hepburn, and Paul looks a bit like Lisa, which I guess makes him a male Audrey Hepburn with less hair.

  It's always good to see them, even if we all agree the restaurant's chef needs some more focus--he's offering sushi, French food, blintzes, everything but bird's nest soup (a dish made from the saliva of tiny Chinese birds). The main thrust of our conversation is that we're all way too busy. This, I've found, is one of the absolute favorite discussions of East Coast urbanites in my age bracket, along with real estate prices, smoking laws, and the inexplicable career of bow-tied PBS satirist Mark Russell. Well, maybe that last one is my own little obsession.

  In any case, my dinner companions are all complaining about their overloaded schedules. Lisa--who never leaves the house without a camera--has a dozen shoe boxes bulging with photos.

  "I just don't have time to put them in photo albums."

  "I'll do it for you," says Julie. She's the single most organized woman in the world. If given the choice between organizing a closet and going on vacation, she'd have to think about it.

  "I might take you up on that," says Lisa. "I'd do it myself, but I just need more hours in the day."

  "There really should be at least thirty hours in a day," says Paul.

  And here--like a great running back who sees a hole in the offensive line--I make my move. "You know, if you just wait a bit, there will be more hours in the day."

  No one responds, so I continue.

  "The days are getting longer because of the drag on the earth. So just wait a few million years. I mean, you're lucky you didn't live half a billion years ago. There were only twenty hours in a day."