The Know-It-All

by A. J. Jacobs

  Addled Brain Syndrome

  Okay, I made that up. There’s no such thing as addled brain syndrome. But I’m definitely suffering from something. As I vacuum up this information hour after hour, I find myself so overwhelmed that I have to take frequent breaks to walk around the office. Walk it off, as my gym teachers used to say. You only sprained that brain. It’s not a fracture. Walk it off, son.

  The reading is much, much harder than I expected. But at the same time, in some ways, it’s strangely easier. In some ways, it’s the perfect book for someone like me, who grew up with Peter Gabriel videos, who has the attention span of a gnat on methamphetamines. Each essay is a bite-sized nugget. Bored with Abilene, Texas? Here comes abolitionism. Tired of that? Not to worry, the Abominable Snowman’s lurking right around the corner (by the way, the mythical Snowman’s footprints are actually produced by running bears). Reading the Britannica is like channel surfing on a very highbrow cable system, one with no shortage of shows about Sumerian cities.

  The changes are so abrupt and relentless, you can’t help but get mental whiplash. You go from depressing to uplifting, from tiny to cosmic, from ancient to modern. There’s no segue, no local news anchor to tell you, “And now, on the lighter side.” Just a little white space, and boom, you’ve switched from theology to worm behavior. But I don’t mind. Bring on the whiplash—the odder the juxtapositions, the better. That’s the way reality is—a bizarre, jumbled-up Cobb salad. I love seeing the prophet Abraham rub elbows with Karl Abraham, a German shrink who theorized about the anal expulsive and phallic stages.

  Oh yes, that’s another thing. Sex. This came as a pleasant surprise to me. The Britannica may not be Cinemax, but it’s got its fair share of randiness. I’ve learned, for instance, that Eskimos swap wives. Plus, the Achagua men have three to four spouses and flowers in the Acanthaceae family are bisexual. Yowza! That’s some racy stuff. Hot. Hotter than the Schwertbad-Quelle sulfur spring. I expected the Britannica to be prudish, but it seems quite happy to acknowledge the seamy world below the belt.

  And speaking of titillating R-rated material, my God—the violence! It’s extraordinary how blood-soaked our history is. One Persian politician was strangled by servants, another suffocated in a steam bath. Or consider poor Peter Abelard, an 11th-century Christian theologian who, judging from his miniature portrait, looks a bit like Steve Buscemi. Abelard came up with some interesting ideas—namely that deeds don’t matter, only intentions; in other words, the road to heaven is paved with good intentions. But how can I give much deep thought to that idea when the entry also discusses Abelard’s love affair with his student Heloise, which ended rather badly: Abelard suffered castration at the order of Heloise’s outraged uncle. Sweet Jesus! I’m guessing Heloise didn’t get asked on a whole lot of dates after that one.

  Sex, violence, MTV pacing—all this makes my quest much more palatable. But I don’t mean to give the wrong idea. As I said, it’s hard. Excruciatingly hard. First, the vastness of it. I knew there was an ocean of information out there. But I didn’t really comprehend what I was up against until I started trying to drink that ocean cup by cup. I’ll be reading about Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia, and I’ll get a list of the seven different ethnicities that comprise that city: Gallas, Gurages, Hareris, Tigres, Walamos, Somalis, and Dorses. Should I even try to memorize those? Six ethnicities I could handle, but seven? That’s daunting.

  The Britannica is not a book you can skim. This is a book you have to hunch over and pay full attention to, like needlepoint or splinter removal. It hurts my poor little head. Until now, I didn’t realize quite how out of shape my brain had become. It’s just not accustomed to this kind of thinking. I feel like I’m making it run a triathlon in ninety-degree heat when it’s used to sitting in a hammock drinking mojitos. The math and science parts of my brain have gone particularly flabby since college. At most, I have to calculate the number of subway rides I have remaining on my little electronic Metrocard. That rarely requires quadratic equations. At my job, the toughest science I’ve encountered was the time I had to edit a few sentences about Botox for men. So when I read about acid-base reactions with conjugate bases and nonaqueous solvents, I’m mystified. I generally read this type of stuff again and again and just hope it’ll sink in. It’s the same strategy that American tourists in Europe employ when confronted with a non-English-speaking store owner. Umbrella. Um-brella! Um-BREL-la! Say it often and loud enough, and it’ll click. But I forge on.

  Alcott, Bronson

  The father of novelist Louisa May Alcott was famous in his own right. A radical reformer full of unorthodox ideas, he opened several schools for children. The schools had a particularly unusual discipline system: teachers received punishment at the hands of the offending pupil. The idea was that this would instill a sense of shame in the mind of the errant child. Now, this is a brilliant concept. I have a long list of teachers I wish I could have spanked, among them my fifth-grade instructor, Ms. Barker, who forced us to have a sugar-free bake sale, which earned us a humiliating $1.53.

  Alger, Horatio

  I knew he was the 19th-century author of the famous rags-to-riches novels. I didn’t know he turned to writing after being kicked out of a Massachusetts church for allegations of sexual misconduct with local boys. I told you—the Britannica can be a gossip rag.

  amethyst

  One of my biggest challenges is figuring out how to shoehorn my newfound knowledge into conversations. Naturally, I want to show off, but I can’t just start reeling off facts or I’ll be as annoying as an Acarina, a type of mite that, incidentally, copulates by transferring little packets of sperm called spermatophores.

  And since I’ve read only entries in the very early As, my new topics of expertise don’t come up that often. You’d be surprised at how many days can go by without one of my friends mentioning aardvarks, much less aardwolves—an African carnivore that the Britannica generously describes as “harmless and shy.”

  But today I had my first successful reference. Well, I don’t know if it was actually successful. Okay, it was spectacularly unsuccessful. A total failure. But it was a start.

  I’m in my office with a writer, and I need to give him a deadline for his piece.

  “Can you get it to me Tuesday?”

  “How about Wednesday?” he says.

  “Okay. But Wednesday is the latest. Otherwise, I’ll be angry. I’ll have to rip you more assholes than an abalone.”

  Puzzled look.

  “Abalones are a type of snail with five assholes.”

  Silence.

  “They’ve got a row of holes in their shells, and five of them serve as outlets for waste.”

  Silence. Annoyed look.

  I thought it was an amusing little tidbit, a nice twist on the cliché, a clever way to make it clear that I really needed the article. Instead, I came off like a colossal outlet for waste.

  I figure it’ll be easier to show off my increasing intelligence in a relaxed social environment. So when Julie and I go to her friends’ house for dinner that night, I am prepared to dazzle. We arrive at Shannon and David’s apartment, exchange cheek kisses and “Great to see you’s.”

  “Brrrrr,” says Julie as she unbundles her several layers of winter wear.

  “A little nippy out there, huh?” says Shannon.

  “Not quite as cold as Antarctica’s Vostok Station, which reached a record 128 degrees below zero,” I reply. “But still cold.”

  Shannon chuckles politely.

  We sit down in the living room and Shannon starts telling Julie about her upcoming vacation in Saint Bart’s.

  “I’m so jealous,” says Julie.

  “Yeah, I can’t wait to get some sun,” Shannon says. “Look how white I am.”

  “Albinism affects one in twenty thousand Americans,” I say.

  Shannon doesn’t quite know how to respond to that one.

  “Anyhoo,” says Julie, “where are you staying?”

  I probably sh
ouldn’t have said my albinism fact, but I can’t help it. I’m so loaded up with information that when I see a hole—even if it’s a small hole, even a microscopic hole, the size of an abalone’s butt hole—I have to dive right in.

  David returns from the kitchen with a bottle of wine.

  “Anyone want some cabernet?”

  “I’ll have a glass,” says Julie.

  “I’ll have some too,” I say. “And an amethyst if you’ve got one.”

  David cocks his head.

  “Amethysts protect against drunkenness, according to the ancients,” I say.

  “Is that so?” says David.

  “Yes. I don’t want to end up like Alexander the Great, who died after getting ill from a drinking bout.”

  “No, I suppose not,” says David. He laughs. Nervously, I think.

  Julie turns back to Shannon, hoping to resume the vacation talk. “So, which hotel?”

  “We’ve got reservations at this place I found in Conde Nast Traveler—”

  “Also, speaking of alcohol consumption,” I say, “what country do you think has the highest per capita rate? I’ll give you a hint: it’s not Ireland.”

  “Hmm. Is it France?” asks Shannon. She’s very polite.

  “Nope. Not France. The residents of Luxembourg are the biggest boozers in the world.”

  “Huh.”

  “Who woulda thunk?” I ask. “Luxembourg! But seriously, do not get between a Luxembourgian and a bottle of whiskey!” I say, shaking my head and laughing.

  Part of me is hoping Shannon and David won’t notice that all my facts start with A. But at the same time, I’m also kind of longing to be exposed. I’ve already logged thirty hours reading my encyclopedia, and I want them to ooh and aaah at my accomplishment. Maybe Julie senses this, or maybe she just wants to avoid further embarrassment, but she decides to spill my secret.

  “A.J.’s decided to read the encyclopedia,” she tells Shannon. “And he’s only in the As, so you’ll be hearing a lot of A facts.”

  “The encyclopedia?” says David. “That’s some light reading.”

  “Yeah, it’ll be good on the beach,” I say.

  “Seriously, why are you reading the encyclopedia?” says Shannon.

  I had prepared for this. I had my answer.

  “Well, there’s an African folktale I think is relevant here. Once upon a time, there’s this tortoise who steals a gourd that contains all the knowledge of the world. He hangs it around his neck. When he comes to a tree trunk lying across road, he can’t climb over it because the gourd is in his way. He’s in such a hurry to get home, he smashes the gourd. And ever since, wisdom has been scattered across the world in tiny pieces. So, I want to try to gather all that wisdom and put it together.”

  “I guess you’re not up to P, for ‘Please shut up,’ ” says Julie.

  They all laugh at that one.

  Arabian horses

  Next morning, it’s back to my daily dose of Britannica. Arabian horses have twenty-three vertebrae instead of the twenty-four found in most horses. I spend a moment trying to think of a situation in which this information might be useful. Maybe I could write a mystery story where the identification of an Arabian horse skeleton is a major plot point. Maybe I could win a bar bet with a moderately—but not overly—knowledgeable equestrian. Who knows?

  Asimov, Isaac

  I was aware that Asimov was a major figure in American literature, the author of numerous science fiction and science books. I didn’t know just how many books: about five hundred. The man wrote five hundred books. I don’t think I’ve written five hundred Post-it notes. He wrote so many books, even his biographers are reduced to the vague “about five hundred.” The Britannica can be depressing that way. As you read accomplishment after accomplishment, Nobel after Nobel, you are reminded just how little you’ve done with your life. My entry—if written today—would look something like this:

  Jacobs, Arnold “A.J.” (b. March 20, 1968, New York, N.Y.)

  A minor figure in 20th-century American journalism. Jacobs attended Brown University, where he studied philosophy, attracted to the discipline because it required the lowest number of course credits necessary to graduate. Upon receiving his degree, he began his career writing articles for Dental Economics, the leading publication covering financial matters for dentists and orthodontists. He later established his reputation with a prescient sidebar in the pop culture magazine Entertainment Weekly comparing O. J. Simpson and Homer Simpson, which received great acclaim across America, or at least within the home of his parents. He met many of the midlevel show business figures of his day, including Bill Maher and Sarah Michelle Gellar, neither of whom knew his name.

  In 2000, Jacobs married Julie Schoenberg, a vivacious advertising sales representative also working at Entertainment Weekly. The marriage was apparently a happy one, despite the fact that Jacobs whined whenever Schoenberg suggested maybe he should put on pants because they were going to a nice restaurant.

  Jacobs’s other achievements include folding napkins into such shapes as a rabbit and a hat. See also: hypochondria and germaphobe.

  I think the Asimov entry stings all the more because I have a quasi Asimov in my own family. My dad—in his spare time, just for fun—writes legal books, and has so far published twenty-four of them. These are serious volumes, books with titles like The Impact of Rule 10b-5 and Disclosures and Remedies Under the Securities Law. He specializes in laws on insider trading, the kind that Martha Stewart was investigated for breaking, launching a thousand riffs on ways she might redecorate her jail cell.

  The other day, I was over at my parents’ house for lunch, and I figured, since I am trying to finish my dad’s quest, I should take a look at his books. So after the meal, I wandered into his study and was confronted with those twenty-four tomes. A big, sagging shelf of them.

  I haven’t picked one up in years, not since I was fourteen. Back then, I used to enjoy the first volume of The Impact of Rule 10b-5, mainly because my dad had inserted a Playboy centerfold into a half dozen copies to send to friends as a joke. He had kept one of these customized copies for himself. So that was probably the closest I came to going to law school—studying the case of Miss January’s missing ballet tutu.

  This time, I figure I should read words other than “Turn-ons: champagne, walks on the beach, and men who can help my acting career.” I pick up The Impact of Rule 10b-5 and read a sentence thick with words like “fiduciary” and “annuity plan” and “corpus.” No comprehension; it could be random ink splatters on the page and I would have had the same level of understanding.

  I flip to the middle of the book. As expected, the pages are heavy with footnotes. Really heavy. Some pages have just a couple of lines of regular text floating at the top, then a sea of footnotes all the way down. I guess footnotes isn’t the right word when they get this abundant—more like shouldernotes or foreheadnotes.

  My father is proud of his footnotes. A few years ago, he broke the world’s record for most footnotes in a legal article, coming in at an impressive 1,247. Soon after that, a California legal professor topped my dad’s record with 1,611 footnotes. My dad didn’t stand for that. He wrote another legal article and just crushed his opponent. Squashed him with 4,824 footnotes, ensuring his status as the Wayne Gretzky of footnotes. My dad tried to get the Guinness Book of World Records interested, but legal footnotes apparently don’t get the same respect as fingernails the size of adult rattlesnakes. So he had to settle for a mention in Harper’s Index.

  I flip to Dad’s own index to see if I recognize any words. More dense Latinate legalese. And then I spot this entry: “Birds, for the, 1–894.” My mother had once told me about that joke of Dad’s, but I had forgotten about it. One of his better ones. But my Lord, 894 pages of text in just one volume—that’s no joke. No wonder he gave up reading the Britannica—he was writing his own encyclopedia.

  This investigation into my dad’s oeuvre wasn’t particularly good for my self
-esteem. The scope and denseness of his work—those were both envy inducing. But that’s not to mention that my dad has made himself the expert on insider trading. Not an expert. The expert. What had I made myself an expert on? The plot lines of the various Police Academy movies? Not even that. Though I haven’t read the Britannica’s write-up of psychoanalysis, I figure my dad’s accomplishments have something to do with my quest to finish the encyclopedia. If I can’t beat my dad on depth, at least I can get him on breadth.

  assault and battery

  They’re always lumped together, but there is a difference. Assault is the attempt to apply force, battery is the actual application. Look at that—I’m already getting a legal education. Almost ready for the bar exam.

  atrophy

  A very troubling entry—all the ways my body is crumbling. The bones are becoming lighter and more porous. Muscles are shriveling. And worst of all, age leads to a striking decrease in the number of living cells in my cerebral cortex. Every day, my brain’s surface ridges shrink and the skull fluid swells to fill the space.

  The Britannica’s passages on evaporating cortexes would disturb most people, but I’m particularly rattled; oddly enough, I’ve had a long history of grappling with a fear of brain damage. I might as well get this out on the table now. I mentioned earlier on that, growing up, I thought I was smart. Well, that wasn’t exactly the whole story. I didn’t just think that I was smart. I thought that I was really smart. I thought that I was, in fact, the smartest boy in the world.

  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.