by A. J. Jacobs
I knew this was potentially extremely useful information. But how? Since we rarely put on employee shows of Swan Lake, I seldom find an excuse to twirl at work. And I don’t run into many dervishes on the Upper West Side. The only thing I could come up with was Simon Says.
So there I was, spinning around and around, snapping my head, keeping my focus on Julie’s painting of Ray Charles. And it worked in a sense. I kept myself from getting overly dizzy, even as my nieces and nephew tumbled to the ground.
I didn’t feel nauseated, but afterward, I sure felt like a bully and a jackass. I was so desperate to put my knowledge to some sort of use, I forced it into a semicruel game of Simon Says. This wasn’t organic. This wasn’t like when I saved Anna from eating cilantro. What was I thinking?
I confessed my sin to Julie that night. She wasn’t even impressed. She said anyone who had taken a modern dance class knew about the head-snapping technique.
gamete
Another one of Julie’s friends just got pregnant. Her gamete (sex cell) is now a diploid zygote. These friends of hers are frighteningly fertile. We’re in bad moods. I spend the day with my lips frozen in a fake smile, trying some facial feedback. It fails to comfort me.
Gandhi
I don’t have teenage kids, as is abundantly clear. But someday, God willing, when I do, I’m going to do my best to remember the postpubes-cent Gandhi. When my kids go out and chop down a telephone pole or put a stink bomb in their friend’s locker, I’m going to recall this paragraph: “[Gandhi] went through a phase of adolescent rebellion, marked by secret atheism, petty thefts, furtive smoking and—most shocking of all for a boy born in a Vaishnava family—meat eating.”
Gandhi—that little thug! I wonder if other parents in Porbandar told their kids, “For the last time, I don’t want you hanging around that bad seed Mohandas!” This gives me Movie Idea Number Three: Young Gandhi, with Frankie Muniz as the cigarette-sucking, burger-eating pick-pocket who eventually accepts his fate as the most saintly man alive.
Not to make too much of one paragraph, but it does give me a little more hope about human nature. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve gotten crankier, and have started to think that personality traits don’t change through a person’s life. Once a bully, always a bully. But now I’m confronted with Gandhi. You can’t get a much bigger transformation than that, unless, unbeknownst to me, Mother Teresa went through a phase as a loan shark.
Garibaldi, Giuseppe
I knew Garibaldi had something to do with uniting Italy. I could probably have come up with the fact that he led an army of Red Shirts. (Incidentally, someone needs to write a history of the world according to colored clothing. In addition to Italy’s Red Shirts, I’ve read about the Yellow Hat Order in Tibet; the Black and Tan police force used against the Irish; the feared Seneca leader Red Jacket; those fascist scum the Brown Shirts; the Great Yellow Turban rebellion in China; and, for a little variety, the Shirtless Ones, who supported Argentina’s Juan Perón. I think it would make a great doctoral thesis, or at least a lovely spread in Harper’s Bazaar.)
Back to Garibaldi. I’m ashamed I was so ignorant of this man, because he led an inspiring life, one that intersected in a surprising and—to me, at least—profound way with the life of Abraham Lincoln.
The sixty-second Garibaldi:
Born on the fourth of July, Garibaldi first got into trouble as a sailor in the Piedmont navy. After taking part in a socialist-inspired mutiny, he fled to South America to avoid a death sentence. There, among other things, he eloped with a married Brazilian woman and led a group of Italian soldiers in Uruguay’s revolution against Argentina. These were the first Red Shirts. In other fashion news, Garibaldi adopted the gaucho costume he’d wear for the rest of his life.
Garibaldi returned to Italy in 1848 to help in its fight for independence from Austria. He scored some astounding underdog victories before being exiled again, landing in, among other places, Staten Island. But Garibaldi was a tenacious man. He returned to Italy and in 1860, he fought his most famous battle: he conquered Sicily and Naples with his tiny band of a thousand Red Shirts and the support of the local peasants, who, taken by his charm, saw him as a god who would deliver them from feudalism. By 1862, he had effectively united the country.
Garibaldi’s love life wasn’t so successful. In 1860, says the Britannica, he married a woman named Giuseppina, but abandoned her, within hours of the marriage, when he discovered she was almost certainly five months pregnant by one of his own officers. A shorter marriage than most of Shannen Doherty’s.
By the end of his life, Garibaldi had become a pacifist, a champion of women’s rights, racial equality, and religious freethinking. Not bad. The most likable revolutionary I’ve encountered so far.
But I haven’t even brought up my favorite fact about Garibaldi, which is this: in July of 1861, an embattled Abraham Lincoln offered to make Garibaldi a Union general in the American Civil War. Garibaldi turned Lincoln down, partly because Lincoln wasn’t ready to abolish slavery yet, and partly because Garibaldi wanted supreme command of the federal troops.
This is an appealing tidbit. Not just because it raises the question, what if an Italian had led the Union troops to victory? Would the South hold a grudge against his country? Would there be no pizza parlors in Alabama? It also appeals to me because I would never have guessed Honest Abe was going to make a surprise cameo in the life of Garibaldi. I love when this happens. It’s always exciting, like when there’s a special guest star on a sitcom. The Britannica is packed with weird ways that great lives intersect. I love reading how Arthur Conan Doyle had a venomous feud with Harry Houdini (the occult-hating Houdini thought Conan Doyle’s seances were a sham.) Or that Winston Churchill wrote the obituary for Ian Fleming’s father. Or that Bach and Handel were both treated by the same quack doctor. I like the more random connections as well, like the one between Esso and Erte and Eminem (all have names derived from the pronunciation of letters). The Britannica reminds me of the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon game, but for all of life. In the words of Donne, John (1572–1631), no man is an island. I find it comforting to know that I’m not alone, that I’m part of the big fabric, and that it’s a lovely fabric, like the intricate carpets that Abbas commissioned in Persia.
Garrick, David
Famed 18th-century Shakespearean actor who also managed the Drury Lane Theatre. He fought to “reform” the audience, discontinuing the practice of reduced entry fees for those who left early. I don’t like this guy. His reform is terrible. We need to go back to the old system: You stay an hour at a movie, you pay half price. You stay a half an hour, quarter price. Leave after ten minutes, the theater has to pay you for your trouble.
gazpacho
I’m feeling overwhelmed by the reading. I’m spending way too much time on it. The font is too small, the pages are too big, the words too polysyllabic. It’s the literary equivalent of trying to hike in the dense underbrush of a jungle (though not the Amazon rain forest, which has a curiously sparse ground level; the canopy doesn’t let light get through). In any case, it’s excruciatingly slow going. I need a machete to chop my way through.
So I do something drastic: I enroll in a speed reading course from the Learning Annex, New York’s adult education outlet. The $44 class promises to make me a literary speed demon, to double my intake. It’s held on a Tuesday night in a nondescript classroom with an instructor named Les. Les is one of the founders of the Evelyn Wood speed-reading courses, which, he boasts, have trained more than 2 million people, among them Presidents Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon, and Carter. “Carter got the Nobel Prize,” he says. “We’re not going to take credit for that.”
The class chuckles dutifully. There are about twenty of us. We’ve been told to bring our books with us, so there’s an odd assortment of reading material scattered around. One woman has brought Earth in the Balance by Al Gore, someone else has The Prince by Machiavelli, and one guy has brought his copy of Maxim magazine, presumably because he want
s to learn to masturbate faster (it turns out Maxim is just for the midclass break; he also has a novel that features fewer models in nurse outfits). I pull the Britannica out of my bag and drop it on the desk with a manly thud. Sadly, no one seems to notice.
Les looks to me like a turtle. A large turtle. I feel sorry for the buttons on his striped shirt, which seem to be under a tremendous amount of pressure from his stomach. They seem like they could pop any moment and shoot into the unsuspecting eye of a would-be speed reader. I’m glad I have my glasses on.
The first thing I learn is that Les can talk. He talks about a one-eyed executive he once taught. He talks about a housewife who sold the paperback rights to her book for $3 million. And, yes, he talks about the topic at hand. “The slower you read, the more you’re going to remember, right?” he asks in his thick New York accent. “Uh-uh…the slower you read, the worse your comprehension.” Les looks around to see if there are any Skeptical Sams. No one takes the bait. “Your brain is so powerful, it’s like driving a brand-new Ferrari at thirty miles per hour. Or the way my daughter drives—one foot on the brake and one foot on the accelerator. We’re going back and forth, back and forth, and she can’t figure out why until I tell her. The faster you read, the greater your comprehension…If you read slow, your brain gets bored. You daydream about going to Bloomingdale’s or to a party.”
I nod, hoping he’ll see. Got it. My Ferrari-like mind has comprehended. Ready to move on. But Les lingers on this theme for what seems like a very long time, making me wish I was at a department store or a party or anywhere else. Les may be a fast reader, but he sure is not a fast teacher.
Finally, Les tells us to pick up the gadget he handed out to all of us at the beginning of class—a silver cigar-shaped laser pointer. “This is a revolutionary thing,” announces Les grandly. “We call it the Raster Master. I’d like you all to introduce yourself. Say, ‘Hello, Raster Master.’ ”
The class actually says, “Hello, Raster Master.” We all start clicking the button and shining the red dots around the classroom. Les explains that the Raster Master’s name is derived from the Latin word for rake, adding that it’s “a technical term.”
“It didn’t fall out of the sky,” he continues. “We did research for ten years.” The secret, he explains, is that “the eyes follow a moving object. Why? Because our ancestors in the savannah in Africa who just fell out of the trees didn’t want to get killed.” They had enemies—lions and tigers and other cavemen (though not dinosaurs, he points out, since they had gone extinct)—and needed to spot the dangers. “Whoever made us—God, evolution, take your pick—gave us peripheral vision to survive.” He’s worried he’s lost the class. “Too much? Too complicated?”
No, we think we’ve got it. “I teach fourth-graders. I tell them, do not put the Raster Master up your nose. So they put it in their ears.” I smile and nod. I will not put the Raster Master in any orifice whatsoever. The Raster Master, Les tells us, widens the peripheral vision and lets us read more than one word at a time. He tells us this a lot.
We finally get to test out the famed Raster Master. I open to the G section and read with the rest of the class for sixty seconds. I move that red dot across the lines. I try to read clumps of words, not single words. I read about “gazebo” (a joke word that combines “gaze” with the Latin suffix ebo, meaning “I shall”) and “gazpacho” (Arabic for soaked bread). I’m about to dive into Gbarnga (a Liberian city) when he tells us to stop. Honestly, I can’t tell whether I read faster with the help of the Raster Master, but I don’t want to get in trouble, so I say that I did.
Les pleads with us to be careful with the Raster Masters. They’re not ours to keep, but they are available on his Web site for about $20. He continues telling the class about peripheral vision and the Raster Master until finally, after what seems like an eon or two, a Russian woman in purple pants raises her hand. “You’re repeating this over and over. You’re not telling us anything new.”
Yes! Someone’s said what I was too timid to say. She has challenged the mighty Les. Hallelujah!
But Les shoots right back. “Most people can’t handle more than one strategy at one time,” he says. His tone is sharp. “You can leave if you want. But you’re not ready for a second strategy. It’ll overwhelm you.”
She says nothing. I scan the class for some outrage among my fellow students, praying the Russian woman was the Trotsky in a revolution that would sweep the classroom. But no luck. The others are looking at her as if she’s some sort of nogoodnik troublemaker. I just don’t get it. People are way too accepting of authority, even if that authority is some blowhard with a Latin-named gadget.
After a short break, Les does get around to teaching us new strategies. Unfortunately, none of them have to do with speed reading. One is a learning method that involves tracing an outline of your hand on paper the way that kindergarteners draw Thanksgiving turkeys. Another is a meditation technique using the mantra “Men Hay Sheen,” a sound he likens to the name of West Wing actor Martin Sheen. “The Hindus have been doing this for twenty-five hundred years, and look how smart they are.” Les pauses. “Well, I don’t know if they are or not. But they’re skinny. You ever notice how skinny Hindus are?”
We nod. Yes, we’ve noticed. Hindus are skinny.
Oh, and we learn one other lesson, the most important lesson of all: if you really want to learn how to read fast, you can enroll in Les’s weekend course, where many other secrets will be revealed. That one’s only $395.
When I hear that, the clouds part. All becomes clear. Tonight’s seminar is just a teasing infomercial for the real—aka expensive—course. Dammit! I toss my G volume manfully into my bag, shaking my head.
As I walk out, I can’t resist getting in one sharp dig at Les. I inform him that the first sentence of his xeroxed handout contains a typo. The handout warns that if you read while on automatic pilot, it “wrecks havoc.”
“It should be ‘wreaks havoc,’ ” I tell him.
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
“No, you’re right. W-r-e-e-k?”
“No, w-r-e-a-k.”
“You’re right. I’ll tell my secretary.”
I thought that would feel good—showing up Les. But it didn’t. It just felt cheap and dirty. I took the number 9 train home annoyed, playing with my Raster Blaster on the subway posters. (Yeah, I’m a sucker; I bought one of the damn things.) For the next few days, I tried to read my Gs using the red dot method. But it felt so dorky and unnatural and awkward, I gave up. I figured that even if I sped up my reading a bit, the total saved time would never equal the three hours I wasted in that class.
General Grant National Memorial
I am desperate for someone to ask me the dusty classic “Who is buried in Grant’s Tomb?” Because now I can say, “Ulysses S. is buried in Grant’s Tomb, but so is his wife, Julia Dent Grant. Also, it cost a remarkable $600,000 for 1897, and reaches a height of a hundred and fifty feet.”
Genghis Khan
I pay special attention to this one, seeing as my father is obsessed with Genghis Khan. His bookshelf has an all-Genghis-all-the-time section that stretches at least a yard, maybe more. I’m sure he knows all the Britannica’s facts on Genghis. I’m sure he knows that Genghis was born clutching a clot of blood, which was taken as a sign of good luck. I’m sure he knows that when Genghis conquered the Tartars, he had all Tartars over the height of a cart axle put to death, which reminds me of some horrible, bloody twist on a Disneyland ride. You must be this tall to live.
The Genghis fixation is an odd one, since my dad is the least warrior-like man I know. The most violent I’ve ever seen him is when he staples a big wad of papers. If my dad were somehow transported back to Genghis Khan’s army, he’d no doubt get in trouble for failure to meet his decapitation quota. In all my years, I’ve never seen him ride a horse, much less hurl a plague-infested body over an enemy wall.
The Britannica’s write-up of Genghis doe
sn’t help much in illuminating my father’s obsession. To me, the man seems like just another run-of-the-mill pillaging tyrant, if a very successful one. So the question remains: why Genghis? Since my quest is ostensibly to learn everything, I suppose I should try to solve the Genghis mystery as well. Maybe I can—in this year of knowledge gathering—also figure out my dad. So I do something I rarely do: I call my dad and ask him a serious question point-blank.
“I like the way he dresses.”
No, really.
“Um, he’s a very good dancer. You should see his fox-trot.”
I’m not letting my dad off the hook. No, really. I want to know. This is a highly unusual demand in our father-son relationship, and he probably hates it. But after my pleading, my dad does think about it a bit. And finally comes up with two reasons. First, not too many people know about Genghis, so that’s appealing to him. And second, despite the tyrant’s ruthless and murderous ways, he did help spread civilization—his Pax Mongolia opened trade from East to West.
Now I understand. And the reasons are, in fact, illuminating. My own interests are—not so coincidentally—fueled by similar motives. Just like my dad, I like carving out a quirky, little-explored territory of knowledge. And just like my dad, I’m drawn to counterintuitive information. I feel I have made some progress. I thank my dad, and tell him that I’m not plotting to kill him, the way Genghis’s son Jochi did.
George III
The British king ended his sentences “rhetorically and fussily with the repeated words ‘what, what, what?’ ” I considered trying the “what, what, what?” thing out on Julie, especially after we had a fight over where exactly the paper towels should go in the pantry closet, but even I realized it was way too annoying.
gerbil
