by A. J. Jacobs
Emboldened, I decide to forge ahead. “I’ve got to say, the accuracy is remarkable. I found very few errors in the Britannica.”
They seem pleased.
“But I did find some.”
I tell them about how Robert Frost is listed as a Harvard graduate even though he dropped out, and about a backward quotation mark. I watch their faces for shock or hostility, but they just seem curious. They want to fix them. Theodore actually takes notes. This is a huge feeling of power, a strange and great sensation. Can you imagine? I am going to have an impact on the esteemed Encyclopaedia Britannica. It has always seemed so imposingly static; to be able to change it was unthinkable, as likely as changing Teddy Roosevelt’s chin on Mount Rushmore. But here I am, doing it.
“Also, my wife is upset there’s no mention of Tom Cruise.”
Again, Theodore jots down a note. This one is much more of a long shot. But Theodore did say they want to beef up the pop culture coverage, to make the Britannica more accessible without sacrificing the gravitas or dumbing it down. Man, if I got Tom Cruise in, I would be golden with Julie. I could forget a half dozen anniversaries, but I’d always have that.
I spend an hour chatting with Dale and Theodore—during which I start to understand a smaller and smaller percentage of what they are saying, since they begin to discuss the theory of databases. I also, embarrassingly enough, have to ask what the word “ligature” means—it’s when two letters are smushed together, like the a and the e in the official title of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. (I’ve used the nonconnecting ae in this book, partly because I can’t figure out how to get the ligature on my Macintosh keyboard.)
But there is much more to see, so Tom hustles me out of Dale’s office. He shows me the illustration department (I particularly like the disemboweled laser printer being used as a model). And the animation department, which makes short movies for the Britannica CD-ROM (I comment that the video of a dragonfly eating its prey reminds me of a Bruckheimer movie, a reference I immediately wish I could take back). I am whisked to the indexing department, which is still riding high from its Wheatley Medal, the Nobel for index people (I get them to show me how they indexed the concept “index,” since I still enjoy a little postmodernism). I talk to some fact checkers (and learn about the time they were confirming the population of a tiny Scottish town, and they called up some guy in the town, who told them, “If you hold the phone a second, I can count,” and he went out and counted). I meet a handful of editors (each has an area of expertise, and assigns the articles out to specialists in the field). I visit the library (a book on Indian treaties, a Malay-to-English dictionary—generally, the oddest collection of books I’ve encountered).
And then Tom has a surprise for me. The wily folks at the Britannica are going to put me to work. They want me to really understand how this encyclopedia is built, so they’re going to have me lay a couple of bricks myself. I’m led to a cubicle, which is all set up for me with two red pencils, a highlighter, a stack of books, and a Britannica mug. And I am left alone, in the silent Britannica offices, listening to the clacking keyboards of other employees.
My first task is to fact check an article on the history of sports. I can do this; I spent several months as a fact checker at the New York Observer. I start by trying to confirm that sumo wrestling uniforms were designed in 1906, not the Middle Ages as many assume. I scan the table of contents of my stack of books. No sumo there. I start clicking though Web sites, spending several tantalizing minutes at one Drexel University page before coming up empty. I begin to sweat. Not metaphorically, but actual perspiration, at least a sponge worth. I get that panicked, I’m-flubbing-this feeling I haven’t gotten since the Mensa test. I want to dazzle these Britannica folks, show that I’m worthy of reading their book. And I’m failing.
After forty minutes—during which time I confirm exactly two of the fifteen facts—I switch to my next task: editing. I’ve been given an article on international criminal law, and been charged with adding “meaningful cross-referencing.” This I can do. Cross-referencing is the art of adding “see such-and-such” at the end of a sentence. If there’s a mention of broccoli, I’d add “see vegetables”—that kind of thing. I start adding cross-references with near giddy enthusiasm, filling up the page with red pen marks, trying to compensate for the fact-checking Chernobyl. International airspace? See sovereignty. Now that’s what I call “meaningful cross-referencing.”
After twenty minutes, I’m called back to Theodore’s office, where I boast about all the references I crossed. He seems moderately pleased.
“Was there anything you would have changed in the international law article,” asks Theodore. “Any big suggestions?”
Damn. I was so busy with my meaningful cross-referencing, I didn’t devote any brain space to the grand picture of whether this was actually a good article. See moron.
“Maybe, um. Well, it could have talked more about the history of international criminal law. Like, did they have the concept in ancient Greece?”
I kind of think this isn’t a half-bad answer. But it isn’t the right one.
“Did you feel that there could be more examples of international criminal law?” asks Theodore. “To bring it down to the reader?”
Shit! That is the right answer.
“Yes,” I say, going into ass-kissing mode. “Definitely a great idea. Like Slobodan Milosevic. When I think of war criminals, that’s who I think of.”
“Well,” says Theodore gently, “we want to make sure we’re not just a newspaper. We’ve got to take the long perspective.”
Jesus. Screwed up again. I was chasing the headlines like some hack journalist instead of thinking like a Britannica editor.
Soon after, I have to leave to catch a flight back to New York.
As Julie and I sit in the airport, my humiliation fades. That wasn’t what I’ll remember most—they were too kind to make my failure sting. What I’ll remember most is the refreshing, genuine, unfettered enthusiasm of the Britannica folks. I’ve never seen people get so excited about diacritics—those little lines and accents on letters, the umlaut, the tilde, that diagonal slash through the L. Dale talked about a database called Information Management and Retrieval System the way teenage boys might discuss Christina Aguilera’s cleavage. He was into it. They love information—reading it, digesting it, and most of all, organizing it.
And you get the feeling the Britannica staff believes—perhaps naively, perhaps a little pretentiously, but sincerely and strongly—that they are engaged in a noble pursuit. It’s not just a business. To them, it’s not the same as selling deoderant, which is what a lot of publishing is nowadays.
At one point during our conversation, when I was speaking in sentence fragments and “uhs” and “ums” as those in my generation tend to, Theodore stopped me cold by reciting a quotation. People in my social circle just don’t recite quotations, unless they’re from Fletch or Spinal Tap. Theodore’s quotation was a dedication in a 1940s edition of the Britannica that he thought was relevant, and it went like this: “To the men, women, and children of the world who, by increasing their knowledge of the earth and its people, seek to understand each other’s problems and through this understanding strive for a community of nations living in peace, the Encyclopaedia Britannica dedicates this volume.” Word.
university
The first one was in Bologna, Italy, in the 11th century. When universities began, teachers charged fees for each class, which meant they had to appeal to the students. Now that’s a brilliant idea that needs to be resuscitated. Open classes up to the free market! Set up a ticket booth outside Psychology 101 and Advanced Statistics and watch the professors scramble to spice things up. I think that would improve education immensely. At the very least, I’d get to see the nap-inducing course I took on the The Faerie Queen flop like an academic version of Gigli.
urine
Dalmatian dogs and humans have strangely similar urine (they’re the only two mammals to
produce uric acid). This could be useful if I ever smoke pot, apply for a government job, and have access to Dalmatians. Regardless, the unexpected connections continue to amaze.
utility
It’s official. I made my dad proud. He was at a benefit last night, and he told an acquaintance that his son was reading the encyclopedia from A to Z. The guy refused to believe it, figuring it was just another Arnieism. Another one of my dad’s practical jokes.
So this morning, I got on a conference call and confirmed that, yes, I am reading the encyclopedia. My dad was delighted—I had helped him pull off a practical joke. Or actually, an anti–practical joke. If there’s one thing that my dad likes better than a well-played canard, it’s when he tells an outrageous truth that nobody believes.
I’m honored. I may not have impressed my dad with my knowledge yet. But the quest itself came in quite handy.
Uzziah
The last of the Us—a king of Judah for fifty-two years in the 8th century B.C. As I reach the end, I keep trying to impose some sort of plot on the Britannica. I keep hoping that there will be some sort of resolution at the end. I know that’s deluded, but a man’s got to dream.
V
vaccine
Brunch at Grandma and Grandpa’s. The talk at the meal is of a tremendous feat of publishing: The Complete Family News. The Family News is my grandmother’s two-page newsletter, published monthly since 1950, with a circulation of about twenty-five loyal readers. My aunt Jane has tracked down most of the five hundred total issues, xeroxed them, and bound them in a massive, Britannica-sized volume.
It’s fascinating reading, at least for those in my gene pool: births, marriages, job accomplishments, details about which baby sucked the toe of which other baby—which sounds a little kinky now that I type it in, but did actually happen.
The Family News doesn’t have a tremendous amount of scandalous information. It’s sort of like Pravda under Khrushchev, but with fewer stories about heroic factory workers. You won’t read about cousins getting downsized or kids experimenting with hallucinogenic mushrooms.
But still, it’s great to flip through. Julie’s been particularly fascinated by the coverage of my first few years of life. This consisted almost exclusively of the announcement of which disease I had that month. I had, in no particular order, an ear infection, “the grippe,” an eye infection, “the germ,” and something called “the croupe.”
“I told you I get sick a lot,” I say. “I’m not a hypochondriac.”
Grandma has been reading it herself. She says she was surprised, when reading about my parent’s courtship, that my father was so young when he entered college.
“How old were you again?” she asks.
“I was sixteen,” he says.
“Wow.”
I take the opportunity to make my requisite passive-aggressive remark—namely that both Cotton and Increase Mather entered Harvard when they were twelve. “The Mathers were also pioneers in smallpox vaccinations,” I added. “Which was controversial at the time. An angry opponent threw a bomb in Cotton’s window.”
For his part, Dad says he was struck by something else when reading The Complete Family News.
“What’s that?” says Grandma.
I prepare for whatever silly joke is to follow.
“I was struck by how much you two have accomplished,” says my Dad. “It’s really remarkable how many great things you’ve done, and how you’ve made the world a better place.”
Huh. I was not expecting that. A genuine emotional moment from my dad. I’ve seen it a few times—more and more in recent years, it seems to me, most notably after the kayaking incident. I’ve read about something called a “joking relationship” that exists in some societies—it’s a way to keep a safe distance. But Dad has broken through the joking relationship. This is admirable. Maybe I need to do the same, like the famous follow-the-leader goslings studied by ethologist Konrad Lorenz.
Van Buren, Martin
Amid all the castrations and blindings and beheadings and bribes and other discourteous means of attaining power, Martin Van Buren is a refreshing commander in chief. The eighth president of the United States proves that sometimes—not often, but sometimes—it pays to be nice.
In 1828, Andrew Jackson appointed Van Buren (along with his huge muttonchops) secretary of state. It was a strange year in Washington, the year the city became embroiled in a scandal that would be called Peggy-Gate if it happened today. Peggy Eaton—who got a few sentences back in the E section—was a humble gal, the daughter of a tavern keeper. But she had the audacity to marry out of her class, getting hitched to Jackson’s secretary of war, John Eaton. Rumors about her alleged misconduct swept Washington, and snooty Washington hostesses snubbed her at their parties. The anti-Peggy brigade was led by the wife of Vice President John Calhoun—a fact that outraged President Jackson, who considered himself a man of the people. Jackson had originally favored Calhoun to succeed him as president, but thanks to the Peggy Eaton affair, Jackson soured on Calhoun.
There was one man in the cabinet, however, who was gracious to Peggy Eaton: Martin Van Buren. And he became the Jackson favorite. Jackson made Van Buren vice president in 1832 and supported him for president four years later. It’s a weird path to political power—being nice to a blue-collar woman. But it’s a heartening one.
Of course, Van Buren was a pretty bad president. And Peggy Eaton, after the death of her husband, married an Italian dancing master who defrauded her of her money and ran off with her granddaughter. So the story’s not exactly a fairy tale. But I try to ignore that part. Be nice to people—that’s the takeaway here.
Vassar College
Just a couple of days till Millionaire. I’m still freaking out, still making arbitrary lists of things I’ve forgotten. Which are the Seven Sister schools? What’s the biggest volcanic eruption (it was Mount Tambora in Indonesia in 1815, not Krakatoa). Who are King Lear’s three daughters? Which one of Shakespeare’s kings was a hunchback? I know they’re going to ask that. Oh, yes. Richard III.
vegetarianism
My aunt Marti calls me at home tonight and asks what I am doing.
“Just hitting the books,” I say.
That doesn’t go over so well. She scolds me for the violent metaphor—no need to use the word “hit.”
“Okay, I’m performing gentle acupressure on the books,” I say.
She seems to like that better.
I love Marti, but a conversation with her always includes a list of what I’m doing and saying wrong, and how it supports the phallocentric power structure. She’s got some opinions, my aunt. There’s liberal, there’s really liberal, then there’s Marti, a few miles further to the left. She lives out near Berkeley, appropriately enough—though even Berkeley is a bit too fascist for her.
I haven’t talked to Marti since Julie got pregnant. I break the news to her as gently as I can, and apologize to her for contributing to the over-population problem.
“That’s okay,” she says. She’ll forgive me. But, she points out, I can help minimize the damage to the environment by raising the child vegan.
Marti herself is beyond vegan. Animal rights are her passion (even if she thinks the concept of rights is too Western), and she spends a good part of the year flying around the country attending vegetarian conferences. I could take up quite a bit of space listing the things that Marti doesn’t eat: meat, of course, and chicken, fish, eggs, dairy (she likes to call ice cream “solidified mucous”), but also honey—she won’t eat honey because the bees are oppressed, not paid union scale or something. You’d think she’d like soy, but she believes the soy industry is corrupt. She recently took her diet to a new level by becoming a raw foodist, meaning she eats only food that’s uncooked, because it’s more natural.
Despite her dogmatic beliefs, Marti is very sweet and funny, and her stridency is always tempered with an ability to laugh at herself. So talking to her is always fascinating—though no matter how hard I watch
my tongue, I still get in trouble. She doesn’t like sexist language, naturally, but she also objects to antianimal language. I once got scolded for calling someone a pig. Pigs are fine animals, she pointed out. My grandmother was recently complaining about George W. Bush, and made the mistake of calling him a “lemon.”
“Nothing wrong with lemons, Mother,” said Marti. “Don’t be fruitist.” She said the word “fruitist” with a little bit of irony—but not a lot.
Whenever I tell Marti about what I’m reading in the Britannica, I can count on her to tell me what it got wrong, what it neglected to mention. I told her early on about Francis Bacon. “Did it mention he was a sexist?” she asked.
“No, that didn’t make it in.”
She was unimpressed.
This time, I tell her I have just read an article she might find quite interesting—the one on vegetarianism.
“What’d it say?”
I tell her how it mentioned that Pythagorus, Plato, and Plutarch were vegetarians. Voltaire praised and Shelley practiced vegetarianism, and Jeremy Bentham had a great quote about animals: “The question is not, can they reason, nor can they talk, but can they suffer?”
Oh yes, she likes that one.
I say, would you like to see the article? I make it sound all innocent. But mostly, I am just looking forward to seeing how many inevitable faults she will find with it, from its factual inaccuracies to its use of too-masculine typeface.
I fax it to her, and she doesn’t disappoint. There is, indeed, plenty wrong with the vegetarianism entry. It neglects the long-standing association between meat eating and maleness. It overplays the motivation of vegetarians to remain pure and conquer animalistic passions—radical feminist vegetarianism doesn’t buy into the conquering-of-the-animalistic-passions argument. And why mention only Peter Singer but ignore feminist philosophers on vegetarianism?
