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

by A. J. Jacobs

  The strange part, though, is how he escaped capital punishment. The accused playwright invoked a legal loophole called "benefit of clergy." The concept of benefit of clergy started in 12th-century England when the church convinced the king to offer immunity to priests and other ecclesiastical officials. By the 16th century, however, the definition of "clergy" had stretched to include anyone who could read the Fifty-first Psalm in Latin.

  On the one hand, this is a crazy law--elitist, unjust, arbitrary. On the other hand, it's kind of nice that reading and scholarship were once so highly valued that they had the very tangible benefit of stopping a hatchet from removing your head from your shoulders. It's beautifully clear-cut: You read Latin, you live. You don't read Latin, you'll soon be experiencing a nice case of rigor mortis (though you won't know the definition of rigor mortis, you illiterate jackass).

  juggling

  You should know that juggling has gone through historical stages. Nowadays, your top jugglers tend to stick to three or four balls, but do their juggling from unusual and surprising places--on horseback, or on a unicycle, for example. This as opposed to 19th-century juggling, when ball quantity was king. The more the better. Back in the 1800s, Enrico Rastelli made a name for himself by juggling with ten balls, which the Britannica calls "an almost miraculous accomplishment."

  I admire Enrico. He's my kind of man, and ten-ball juggling, that's my kind of accomplishment. Enrico's a welcome break from the usual Britannica fare. I get dejected reading page after page of men who created vaccines or opened trade routes. I know I'll never do anything like that. I just don't have it in me. But I can see myself doing something along the lines of Enrico. A lesser accomplishment, one that doesn't save lives or change the world, but nonetheless makes people marvel and say, "Now that is impressive." Or else, "Jesus, what a massive waste of time."

  There are a handful of these types sprinkled throughout the encyclopedia. Like Peter Bales, a 16th-century Brit who was famous for his microscopic writing, and produced a Bible the size of a walnut. Or Blondin, a tightrope walker in the 1800s, who tiptoed across Niagara Falls, stopping in the middle to make and eat an omelet. Admittedly, that's not my thing, especially if the omelet wasn't egg white. But still, I love Blondin's passion and commitment.

  And now, for the first time in my life, I'm feeling the same passion and commitment. I've got my own quest, one that causes a handful to marvel, and far more to ask me, "What the fuck?" I know my accomplishment of reading the Britannica won't get me into the Britannica itself. But it's a start. And maybe next time I can conquer something even more impressive, like reading the walnut-sized version of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.

  jujube

  Julie's throwing an Oscar party. Not just a haphazard, casual Oscar party. This is serious Oscar party. This is the most well-organized Oscar party on the Upper West Side. Movie posters suddenly appear on the walls. Fake Oscar statuettes frame the television. There are prizes, pools, Oscar trivia. The tables fill up with Junior Mints, Twizzlers, popcorn, Jujubes (the name Jujube, I learn, comes from a plum-sized Chinese fruit. The etymology of candy--another gap in my education I didn't even know I had).

  If you attend Julie's Oscar party, you should come prepared. All the twenty guests are encouraged to wear costumes that represent a movie that was released that year. Julie has selected a red devil outfit and an accompanying pitchfork; she's Far from Heaven. My costume is a little less elaborate. I've got on jeans and a T-shirt and plan to sit silently in the corner. I'm The Quiet American.

  An hour before the guests arrive, Julie flips on all three of the TVs. She likes to have each of our TVs going just in case anyone happens to be walking through another room. She doesn't want them to miss a single self-congratulatory moment. It gave me a little thought.

  "We should do a past posting scam," I say, as I arrange the Twizzlers in a bowl.

  "What?"

  "Past posting--it's a scam I read about in the con game section. I'll watch the Oscars on the office TV, and you and the guests can watch on TiVo in the living room. But the trick is, you delay the broadcast a few minutes on TiVo. So I'll know who won before you do. And I'll saunter in and bet on the categories and we'll win hundreds of dollars. You know, like in The Sting."

  "Is that what they did in The Sting? I saw it when I was young and never understood it."

  "Yeah, well sort of. But they faked the whole thing. But that's the idea."

  "And they didn't have TiVo."

  "Right, no TiVo in The Sting."

  "Past posting--that's interesting."

  Ha! She liked that one. Nothing better than that. I love having her on my side. Maybe I should confine my facts to ones that help illuminate the plots of old movies.

  The party went off splendidly, though Julie did put the kibosh on my scam because she didn't want me ruining the surprise for her. A reasonable if costly decision.

  Julie

  Sandwiched between Julich (a duchy of the Holy Roman Empire) and Julijske Alpe (the Alps that run near Slovenia), there's a little note in blue ballpoint pen. It reads: "Where's Julie?"

  I laugh out loud when I read this. Julie has snuck into my J volume and done some defacing. I go into the living room and tell her that she's probably under her maiden name, Schoenberg, and they just haven't had time to update it.

  jump rope

  It's about midnight, and Julie's asleep. I'm in the extra bedroom, getting my daily dose of knowledge, my butt planted on the white couch, my feet kicked up on the coffee table, reading about jump rope's most popular chants (as in "Apples, peaches, pears and plums / Tell me when your birthday comes").

  I look up for a second, and I see it silently cruising across the light blue rug. A cockroach. A German cockroach, to be precise, sometimes erroneously called a water bug. It's one of the most primitive living winged insects, basically unchanged for 320 million years.

  And it's about to die.

  I take my J volume--I should have grabbed volume 16 of the Macropaedia, the one that says Chicago-Death on its spine; that would have been more appropriate, but I didn't have time to be witty. I hold my Britannica at shoulder height and drop it, like the payload from a B-17 bomber (a plane so big it was called the Flying Fortress). It lands with a satisfying thud.

  I pick up the book, and am annoyed to see the determined little vermin has survived the assault. It just keeps cruising along like a tiny tank, heading toward the safety of the radiator.

  This time I slam the Britannica down and mash it into the floor with my foot. Victory! I must say, the Britannica's leatherette covers are very easy to wipe down. No bug juice stains at all. So at the very least, even if the whole knowledge thing is a bust, the encyclopedia has come in handy as pest control.

  I get a lot of that--people telling me the different uses for their encyclopedias. My cousin hurt his wrist while playing squash, and his doctor prescribed physical therapy with the encyclopedia. Another friend said that when he was young, he drove his parents crazy by using a volume of the Britannica as a drum in a makeshift percussion set.

  I recently read an article that said that explorer Ernest Shackleton lugged the entire eleventh edition with him on his expedition to Antarctica. (So I can never whine when I lug one onto the downtown number 9 subway). In any case, Shackleton, while stranded over a freezing winter, ended up using the Britannica's pages for kindling.

  Which makes me realize there's something great about the physicality of the Britannica. It's not disembodied information, not a bunch of encoded 1s and 0s on a microchip the size of an Indian mung bean. It's a big old-timey book, a massive object that can squash bugs and light fires and make thuds. I know I sound like a crotchety old grandfather on the porch reminiscing about the good old days of rumble seats, but I believe in pages you can actually turn.

  K

  Kafka

  There are few things more annoying than a busybody friend, the kind who thinks he knows what's best for you and ignores your wishes.

 
Like Albert. Several years ago, when we were both working at Entertainment Weekly, I confided to him that I had a crush on an ad sales girl named Julie Schoenberg. But, I said, that is strictly confidential; you cannot tell a single person, especially Julie. Which he interpreted to mean: "Please, feel free to tell anyone at all, especially Julie."

  Within two hours of my confession, Julie and Albert were behind closed doors, dissecting my crush and laughing.

  The only thing more annoying: when your friend turns out to be right. If Albert had honored my wishes for secrecy, I probably would never have acted on my crush. I'd still be single, lonely, and have no idea what a sconce is, much less have several in my home.

  All this was on my mind as I was reading about Kafka, who had the biggest busybody friend in Western history.

  First, some relevant background on Kafka. As I figured from what little I knew, Kafka had some self-esteem issues, most of which came from having a tyrant of a father. So Kafka, unable to commit himself fully to literature, got his doctorate in law and found a day job at an insurance company. While at law school, Kafka met a minor novelist named Max Brod. The two became lifelong friends.

  While he was alive, Kafka halfheartedly agreed to have some of his strange stories--including Metamorphosis--published by avant-garde literary publications. But on his death from tuberculosis at the age of forty-one, full of misgivings about his work, Kafka left Brod a very clear note: Destroy all unpublished manuscripts. Which Brod interpreted to mean, "Publish all unpublished manuscripts." He even somehow interpreted it to mean "Become Kafka's posthumous publicist, biographer, interpreter, and archivist." If not for Brod, we would never have known The Trial, The Castle, or Amerika, to name a few.

  After reading about Kafka, I decide I'm going to call my friend Albert and tell him to burn my unfinished manuscripts when I die. He'll know what to do.

  Kama

  An Indian angel who shoots love-producing flower arrows. His bow is of sugarcane, his bowstring a row of bees. I have to say, Kama with his fancy bow and arrow makes our Cupid look kind of second-rate in comparison. Cupid just flies around in a diaper shooting regular old love arrows. It is odd, though, that two cultures have these love archers. Does this say something profound about the human mind? Maybe about violence and love? The damn Britannica raises these questions in my mind but doesn't answer them.

  kappa

  The strangest type of supernatural being I've encountered so far: a "vampirelike lecherous creature" from Japan that's obsessed with cucumbers, resembles a green monkey with fish scales, and refuses to lower its head for fear of spilling the magic water it keeps in the holes on top of its skull. I don't know who came up with this, but I can almost guarantee those weren't shiitake mushrooms he was eating.

  katydid

  This member of the grasshopper family is named for its unique mating call, which sounds like a psychotic witness: "Katy did, Katy didn't, Katy did, Katy didn't."

  Kennedy, Edward M.

  If Reggie Jackson's home run spree was the only piece of history I witnessed, here we have the only person in the Encyclopaedia Britannica whom I've actually met. I never had the pleasure of chatting up Aristotle or Balzac, but Ted Kennedy and I have shared a firm handshake and some good times. Or a firm handshake, anyway.

  I met him at my friend Douglas Kennedy's bachelor party. Douglas is one of the many children of the late Robert Kennedy, and he was my roommate at college. Douglas had his bachelor party a few years ago at a steak house in Boston. I flew up from New York, and arrived at the restaurant an hour and a half early. When I walked inside, I found that only one other guest was there ahead of time: Senator Kennedy. Ninety minutes with Ted Kennedy. Alone.

  Some might see this as a wonderful opportunity to talk to a living legend, to probe his mind about politics and history, triumph and tragedy. I saw this as a wonderful opportunity to mumble, laugh nervously, and toss out a half dozen baffling non sequiturs. I'm not very good with powerful people. If I had known he was going to be there, I'd probably have loitered at the airport T.G.I. Friday's for ninety minutes. But there I was with Doug's uncle, the host of the party, drinking vodka tonics.

  He asked me what I did for a living. I told him I worked at Entertainment Weekly magazine. I could see from the quizzical look on his face that he wasn't a longtime subscriber. In fact, he wasn't a huge fan of pop culture at all. Didn't spend a lot of time in Dawson's Creek chat rooms. But he tried. He brought up Seagram's Universal and how they were doing post-merger.

  As for me, on the other hand, I knew about Dawson and his love triangle. But I knew squat about which conglomerate was having balance sheet woes. Dead end.

  He brought up yachting. Another topic where I didn't know my yardarm from my winch. So that sputtered out after about three minutes. I'm honestly not sure how I got through the next eighty-two minutes. I know we spent a good amount of time enjoying the sounds of the restaurant's air conditioner and clinking silverware. But the rest is hazy. When Douglas finally walked in, I experienced something similar to what I imagine Jessica Lynch felt when those marines burst into the hospital.

  The senator--who, as it turned out, was a friendly, big-hearted fellow when around those with social skills--never caught my name, but I did score a couple of points for being punctual. In fact, that became my identity: Punctual Guy. The rest of the weekend, whenever the senator saw me, he shouted, "It's the Punctual Guy!" At the photo shoot, he suggested to the Punctual Guy that he stand over here. At the rehearsal dinner, he gave a hearty hello to the Punctual Guy.

  If I met the senator now, I think I'd fare a lot better. I now know a bit about health care reform and fair housing. Though I might not bring up how the Britannica says his "somewhat raffish personal life" dimmed his presidential prospects.

  Kentucky

  Julie's family's visiting again--they love to visit, these people--and her nephew Adam will be staying the night. I've been assigned to inflate the air mattress for him. It's not an easy assignment.

  I've spent a good fifteen minutes pushing and pulling the little bicycle pump that attaches to the mattress, but I've made disturbingly little progress; the mattress still looks as wrinkly as a large raisin or a senator from one of the Carolinas. The problem seems to be that the air hose doesn't properly fit over the mattress's hole, and so the air keeps hissing out. My father-in-law, Larry, is watching the proceedings from a comfortable chair. He decides to chime in, telling me: "You got book-learning, but you got no street smarts, boy!" (He's from the Bronx, but for some reason likes to affect an Alabama twang.)

  I thank him for his insight, then go back to my pumping. My forehead is damp, I think I've lost a couple pounds so far, and the air keeps wheezing out of the mattress. "You should spend more time reading the instruction manual and less time on the encyclopedia, boy!"

  This is not an unusual comment. Over the past couple of weeks, I've begun to sense the monumental amount of crap that I'm going to receive for the rest of my life (an amount somewhere between John Adams's famous mound of manure and the debris that Hercules had to clean at the stables of King Augeas). Anytime I have a bit of trouble in the mechanical department--working a microwave, opening a lock, downloading a file at work--someone will say, "What's the matter? That not in your fancy encyclopedia?" Anytime I don't know the directions to Yonkers or whether there's a gas station nearby or when the next bus leaves, someone will say, "Guess you don't know everything after all, huh, Cliff Clavin?" Anytime I don't know the secretary of state under Eisenhower or the capital of Kentucky, someone will say "Hey, I thought you knew everything!" (That'd be John Foster Dulles and Frankfort, by the way.)

  And yes, I did finally inflate the mattress. Well, halfway, anyway. But I tell Adam that it's more comfortable that way, and he believes me.

  Khnum

  Still trying to get pregnant. The fertility god of the week is Khnum, the Egyptian diety with a human body and a ram's head. Julie and I gave a little nod to him last night before dinner, thoug
h we don't know how to pronounce his name. (The Britannica, sadly, doesn't have phonetic guides.) Meanwhile, our non-Egyptian helper--Julie's ob-gyn--has recommended I get my sperm tested. Which is why I'm at a reproductive clinic studiously avoiding eye contact with the other people--mostly women--in the waiting room.

  I check in with the receptionist.

  "Yes, you're here for a collection," she says chirpily.

  I like that euphemism--a collection. So that's what I spent so much time doing as a high schooler: collecting. I was much more dedicated to this type of collection than to my coin collection and the drink stirrer collection combined.

  The nurse leads me into a room specially suited to collecting and hands me a small plastic specimen cup.

  "If you need any help, feel free," she says. She points out a basket of pornos--not Playboy or Penthouse, but the really skanky variety, the kind with sweaty men and women engaging in what the Britannica might classify as coition, really nasty types of.

  Speaking of the encyclopedia, I'm relatively confident that I am the only man to ever bring a Britannica volume into this room. It's in my computer bag, and I briefly consider taking it out.

  Though it's probably not nearly as much "help" as the magazines in the basket, the Britannica does have a surprising amount of nudity. And not just text about nudity, mind you, but pictures containing butts and breasts and other areas that would send John Ashcroft into a foaming-at-the-mouth frenzy. And not just classical nudes, but some actual black-and-white photographs of nude women. Like the one by art photographer Bill Brandt, back in the Bs, which, though fuzzy and dark, does upon close inspection in fact contain a nipple. Or the photo next to the entry for Chicago-born photographer Wynn Bullock, which shows a woman lying naked in the forest, also exposing a single nipple. That's two nipples within a couple of hundred pages. It's like very highbrow Hustler. If I had known about this as a teenager in my parents' house, I could have saved myself a lot of time searching for revealing pictures in sweater catalogues. But being an adult, I decided to refrain from flipping through the K volume.