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

by A. J. Jacobs

  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 wants 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 remar
kable $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 doesn'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

  Some say that the African variety of gerbils carry the bubonic plague. The gerbil--of all rodents--does not need more negative publicity. There's enough antigerbil Hollywood gossip out there.

  Gettysburg Address

  Like everyone with an IQ over two score and three, I knew the phrase "four score and seven years ago." But I hadn't read the rest of Lincoln's speech since high school. The Britannica printed it in full, and for that I am grateful. It's a beautiful speech, worthy of its reputation. Maybe it's even too good. Lincoln says, "The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here." Whereas, in truth, the world did note and did long remember what Lincoln said, perhaps even more clearly than the details of the battle itself. Did I recognize that little irony in high school? I must have, but I had no recollection of it.

  Still, that wasn't the most surprising thing I learned (or relearned) about the Gettysburg Address. I learned that despite being president of the United States, Lincoln wasn't the main speaker that day. The big attraction was a two-hour speech by Edward Everett, a former Massachusetts congressman and president of Harvard, who was considered the greatest orator of his day.

  Poor Everett. He probably spent weeks working on his speech, tweaking it, trying it out on his wife. On the big day, he went up to the podium, gesticulated and orated and exhorted for two straight hours, mopping his brow, maybe pausing to take some sips of water, finishing with a big rhetorical flourish. He probably thought he blew everyone away. Then Lincoln goes up to the podium. Two minutes later, Lincoln steps down and Everett is a historical footnote, some guy who gassed on before the Gettysburg Address.

  Two hours versus two minutes. This is fantastic. Now I've got the perfect historical anecdote to back up my oft-mocked contention that shorter is better. Even 140 years ago, before attention spans shrunk to the size of the pygmy shrew (the smallest mammal, weighing less than a dime)--even 140 years ago, people liked the quick take. I've been on board this bus for years. I can't sit still when a movie drags past ninety minutes. By the time the entrees are served, I'm ready for the check. I have such trouble watching even a half-hour sitcom, I've figured out a secret, which I share with you now: if you put on the closed captioning and press fast forward on the VCR or TiVo, you can still read all the dialogue. I read sitcoms in eight minutes flat. So now, when my colleagues at Esquire make fun of me for preferring the bite-sized item to the four-thousand-word magnum opus, I've got poor old Edward Everett in my quiver. But I've droned on about this topic enough. So let's move on.

  giraffe

  "The voice has so rarely been heard, that the animal is supposed to be voiceless; but it is capable of low call notes and moans." Good to know next time I'm playing with kids: "A cow says moo, a cat says meow, the giraffe says [imitate nonsexual low moan here]."

  glottal stop

  In phonetics, this is a momentary stoppage of the airstream, caused by closing the glottis. When those with Brooklyn and Cockney accents pronounce "bottle" as bah-ul, they are using the glottal stop. There's a cruel little irony here--those who use the glottal stop can't even pronounce it correctly. They say "glah-ul stop." I wonder if the people who named the glottal stop did this on purpose, the scamps.

  Glyndwr

  A district in Wales. Please buy a vowel.

  Goethe

  Once in a blue moon (a blue moon, by the way, is caused by the dust in the air following a forest fire), I'll read a section or two from the Britannica CD-ROM. Such was the case with the Goethe entry. I was at the office, I had my laptop, I had some rare free time at lunch--the temptation was just too great. I always feel a little cheap afterwards, as if I've had an affair with a younger, flashier woman. I feel like apologizing to my good old crinkly-paper-and-ink volumes when I get home, maybe bring them some flowers.

  But anyway, Goethe. Before the Britannica I knew, at least, the semi-proper pronunciation of his name. For a couple weeks in high school, I thought there were two people--a German writer named Gerta that Mr. Bender kept talking about, and some guy named Goethe (Go-eetha) I was reading about in my textbook. I figured out they were the same person when it turned out they both wrote The Sorrows of Young Werther. That was a tip-off even for me.

  What I didn't know was Goethe's curriculum vitae. When Goethe wasn't busy explaining to people how to pronounce his name, he found time to be a critic, journalist, lawyer, painter, theater manager, statesman, educationalist, alchemist, soldier, astrologer, novelist, songwriter, philosopher, botanist, biologist, color theorist, mine inspector, and issuer of military uniforms.

  Well, at least he didn't supervise irrigation schemes, that slacker. Oh wait. My mistake. He was also a supervisor of irrigation schemes.

  I was familiar with the phrase "Renaissance Man," but Goethe is like a Renaissance Man with access to amphetamines. I can't figure out how he fit all these jobs into a single life, much less the one-page single-spaced resume that employers generally request. He makes Leonardo da Vinci look like a lazy bum.

  And he makes me extremely jealous. I've always wanted to be a generalist, to snack off the pupu platter of life without committing to any particular entree. In college, I specialized in introductory cou
rses--intro to sociology, anthropology, math, whatever. By senior year, when my friends had all progressed to taking seminars like "The Semiotics of Ornithology in Cervantes's Oeuvre," I was sitting with a bunch of freshmen in "Psychology for Those Who Can Barely Speak English." After college, I became a journalist partly because I could remain something of a generalist. That, and I had no other job offers. But even journalism is a long way from the life of a Renaissance Man. In my ten years in the business, I have yet to do any deep thinking on color theory and I rarely get asked to supervise an irrigation system.

  My dad wanted to be a Renaissance Man too, as evidenced by his overabundance of diplomas--diplomas he'd still be getting if my mom hadn't put her foot down and made him get a job.

  My dad and I live in the wrong era, apparently. Everyone before the 20th century held at least one second job that had absolutely nothing to do with the first. Witness these actual job combinations I've read about thus far:

  poet/meteorologistlawyer/astronomershipowner/sociologistlyricist/mollusk scientisttypographer/puppeteerbuccaneer/scientist

  Nowadays, not only do you have to specialize, but you have to specialize within your specialty. There probably aren't any general mollusk scientists anymore. You have to be a Northeastern digger clam reproductive scientist. I suppose my encyclopedia adventure is an attempt to fight the forces of specialization, to reclaim the title of Renaissance Man. But I read about Goethe, and I realize I'd be lucky to have 4 percent of his range, which is sad.

  Did I mention that Goethe's writings on science alone fill fourteen volumes? And that he also found time to write fifteen hundred passionate letters to Charlotte von Stein, the wife of a court official whom he had a crush on? I did know enough about Goethe from high school to remember that his Faust was all about the dangers of the quest for knowledge. But judging from his life, he had an insatiable thirst for knowledge and did just fine.

  gospel

  Sometimes my day job can be exhilarating. I'm thinking, for instance, of when vineyards send me free bottles of wine hoping for coverage in the monthly wine column. That's always interesting. (By the way--in case any vineyard owners are reading this--Esquire's address: 1790 Broadway, 13th floor, New York, NY 10019. I'm partial to sauvignon blanc.) But a lot of times, my workday can be boring. Dull as watching the grass grow, even grass with cool names like creeping bent grass or turkey beard.