by A. J. Jacobs
thing
In medieval Iceland, the parliament was called a thing. If I ever hang out with Icelandic historians, I’m prepared for some serious punning: “all things considered,” “wild thing,” “ain’t no thing.” I should call my Mensa friends—they’d appreciate that.
thinking
I’ve been thinking a lot about thinking lately. Or more specifically, I’ve been thinking a lot about thinking and knowledge and intelligence, and the relationship among the three. It comes back to that old question that my aunt Marti put to me—will stuffing my head with knowledge actually make me smarter, or is this a yearlong fool’s errand?
I decide to contact one of America’s foremost authorities on intelligence, a Yale professor named Robert J. Sternberg, who also wrote the Britannica’s entry on intelligence. The perfect source. I e-mail Dr. Sternberg that I am reading the entire Britannica in my quest to become the smartest person in the world. I want to talk intelligence with him. A couple of days later, my computer gives its telltale “pling” to indicate that an e-mail has arrived. It’s from Dr. Sternberg. He says: “I have read your e-mail. If you are familiar at all with my theory of intelligence, then you will know that I would not view this quest as worthwhile, nor would I view it as turning you into the smartest person in the world. Quite the contrary, I think it is a waste of time. Best, Bob.”
Well. Dr. Sternberg may claim to know about intelligence, but he could learn a thing or two about etiquette. He’s what I might call a complete Dutch airplane (a total Fokker).
A second e-mail from Dr. Sternberg suggests that I read up on theories of intelligence. In spite of the snooty tone, I decide to do just that. I buy a couple of Dr. Sternberg’s own books, namely the ones called Successful Intelligence and Handbook of Intelligence. The first thing I learn is that intelligence is notoriously hard to define. As a concept, it’s as slippery as a pig covered in white, brown, yellow, bone, and garbage grease. Different cultures have different definitions. In Zimbabwe, intelligence means “to be prudent and cautious.” In the Taoist tradition, humility is a key part of it. In Zambia, intelligence is linked to “cooperativeness and obedience.” And the Western emphasis on verbal ability is far from universal—one African tribe thinks of reticence as wisdom.
Even in our own culture, the perception of intelligence is constantly shifting. The first “scientific” intelligence theorist was a man named Francis Galton, a cousin and friend of Charles Darwin. He believed intelligence meant better sensory discrimination, so he devised a test that measured, among other things, how well we hear high-pitched whistles, guess the weights of objects, and smell roses. Since Galton and his roses, there have been dozens and dozens of attempts to define it. One recent theorist broke intelligence down into such categories as muscle intelligence, musical intelligence, and kinesthetic intelligence (how well you move). Another theory boasted no less than 150 categories.
Perhaps the most famous intelligence theorist is Alfred Binet, a French psychologist who invented the precursor to the modern IQ test in the early 1900s. He devised his test to try to weed out mentally retarded children from regular classrooms. Dr. Sternberg thinks the IQ test is defective because it tests only one type of intelligence—analytical intelligence (the ability to solve problems). It neglects creative intelligence (the ability to come up with new problems) and practical intelligence (the skill of incorporating solutions into real life). I’ve got to like Dr. Sternberg for his IQ bashing, seeing as I did a belly flop on the Mensa IQ test.
On the other hand, I don’t appreciate the harsh tone he takes toward what some call crystallized intelligence. Crystallized intelligence is the accumulation of knowledge—the kind of intelligence that I happen to be soaking up from the Britannica. Sternberg seems to hold crystallized intelligence in lower regard than fluid intelligence, which is the ability of people to mentally adapt to the situation and remain flexible when reasoning and problem solving. Most modern theorists agree flexibility is a major key to intelligence.
Fine. I’m all for flexibility. But here’s one thing Dr. Sternberg should consider—the more knowledge I accumulate, the more I see the importance of flexibility. The two are linked. Flexibility is one of the major lessons of the Britannica. The Romans became a seafaring power because they were flexible—they adapted their land tactics to naval warfare by having their troops board the enemy’s boats. Alexander the Great conquered the much larger Persian army because his soldiers were more mobile. Britain beat France in the Hundred Years War because the French were too heavily armed and couldn’t move quickly. In warfare, in economics, in math, flexibility always wins out.
My second problem with Dr. Sternberg is that my greater pool of knowledge allows me to come up with more creative solutions to problems. I have more examples to draw on, more metaphors I can make. To give an example: I was recently typing on my Macintosh laptop, and the battery started to overheat. It seemed in serious danger of turning into a bubbling gray soup. Most people have probably already figured out a solution, but I’m not a very handy person by nature. I recently had to call the building handyman to open our washer/dryer. So my insight took longer. And it came in a roundabout way—thanks to my knowledge of machine guns. I remembered that machine guns, when they first were invented, got so hot they had to be cooled by water. A soaked Macintosh didn’t sound like a good idea. But what about the fan? I trained one of our oscillating fans on my computer and, voilà, saved my laptop.
I e-mail Dr. Sternberg with my argument. Thanks to the Britannica, I have in fact become more intelligent by his definition, as evidenced by the computer battery incident. Dr. Sternberg writes me back speedily. He starts his e-mail: “Great story!” All right! So maybe he’s not such a Fokker after all. He continues: “I doubt that any of the great contributors in history—in the arts and letters, sciences, music, business—became great contributors because they read this or that encyclopedia.” Damn. Well, that doesn’t seem necessary—especially the detailed list of areas in which I won’t contribute greatly. He goes on: “If it were me, I could think of many more useful ways to spend my time. But perhaps the encyclopedia will work for you, as the Bible or the Koran has worked for others. It gives one a certain security that is lacking in other methods.” So he ends it on an upbeat, if slightly condescending, note.
Dr. Sternberg didn’t really address my argument. Still, I have to admit: the man is intelligent. His theory about the encyclopedia-as-Bible is an insightful one. I’ve thought the same thing over the last few weeks. (See? I’m just as smart as Sternberg!) Consider: I read the Britannica every day, like a ritual. I criticize it here and there, but overall I take what it says as gospel. And most of all, the Britannica gives me a sense of stability and peace; the world may shift at a scary pace, but these paper-and-ink volumes have a permanence about them. When I look at them, I feel safe. Maybe that feeling is just as important as feeling smart.
time
The hour has not always been sixty minutes. In ancient civilizations—Greek, Sumerian, Roman, and so forth—daylight was divided into twelve hours. Thus, depending on the season, the length of an hour oscillated between about forty-five and seventy-five present-day minutes. I like this system. At least during winter, no Andy Rooney.
Tolstoy
I’m a big fan of the Britannica’s coverage of great books. It’s like the Cliffs Notes—but the summaries are even shorter and the level of shame while reading them is slightly lower. No need to trudge your way through all the characters and dialogue—the EB will give you the whole book in a paragraph, along with a neat little moral. A beautiful time-saver. I’m not really kidding; I do find it helpful.
Consider its coverage of Anna Karenina, a book I never got around to finishing. Or starting. The Britannica gives an elegant description of Anna’s brother Stiva, who is “genial and sybaritic.” It says, “Stiva, though never wishing ill, wastes resources, neglects his family and regards pleasure as the purpose of life. The figure of Stiva is perhaps designed
to suggest that evil, no less than good, derives from the small moral choices human beings make moment by moment.”
Though I can’t be sure it’s an accurate analysis of the book, this sentence in the Tolstoy section strikes me as a profound one. It’s a gem of a sentence, the wisest one I’ve seen in hundreds of pages. I’m reading about Tolstoy at a little Formica table at a deli, eating a low-fat muffin. I mention this because, when it is time for me to go, I am about to leave the used napkin on the table. But then I think, that’s the kind of small moral choice the EB is talking about. That’s what Stiva would do. So I pick up the napkin and throw it away. I know, I’m a saint.
Over the next few days, I adopt a new mantra, my own version of “What would Jesus do?” I tell myself, Remember Tolstoy. (Incidentally, speaking of Jesus and Tolstoy: the Russian novelist published a “corrected” version of the Gospels in which he referred to Jesus as “the man Jesus.” Not that it’s relevant.) When leaving my office, I make sure to turn off the lights. Remember Tolstoy, I say. When I borrow a sweater from Esquire’s vast closet of clothes to be used in photo shoots, I return it the next day. It’s not enough to be moral about the big things, I decide. It’s not enough that I refrain from murdering and robbing banks and giving PowerPoint presentations. I’ve got to be mindful of my smallest decisions.
We’ll see how long this lasts. It crosses my mind that, as I approach the end, I’m scrounging for profundity, desperately searching for meaning. Maybe I am. But for now, I’m pleased with my new and improved Tolstoyan self.
training
As my son gets ready to make his out-of-the-womb debut, I go to Mom and Dad’s apartment to pick up some of my own childhood toys—a big yellow Tonka truck, a Lego set, a pillow in the shape of a football. (That last one makes me nervous. What if it sways him to become a football player? I won’t know what to say to him, except for Teddy Roosevelt’s influence on the development of the forward pass.) While I’m over at the apartment, my dad does something surprising. Astounding, even. He asked me for help with their new DVD player.
This had never happened before. He’s the engineer and I’m the mechanical imbecile. It’s as if Bob Woodward called me and asked for tips on investigative journalism. “I just want a lesson from someone who’s used it,” he says. I had indeed used it. I pop in the Casablanca DVD and show him the fast forward, the pause, how to negotiate the menu—basic stuff he probably would have figured out in about four seconds without my aid.
“You know how Bogart got that stiff lip, right?”
“I think it was a war injury,” says my dad.
“No, it was a wooden splinter, weirdly enough. Also, it’s thought that Bogart originated the phrase ‘Tennis, anyone?’”
Dad is busy testing the remote control. I felt good. Important. Here was my dad asking me for assistance. He wasn’t too proud. Maybe someday I’ll ask my son for tips on how to set up the holographic toaster.
triumphal marches
I am taking a break from my studies and I flip on my old pal the E! channel, a network devoted to twenty-four-hour breathless coverage of Hollywood. I hadn’t watched this channel in months.
It seems stranger than I’d remembered it. The correspondents use an overabundance of hair gel and superlatives (“greatest, sexiest, hottest”). They move their facial features a lot. They talk about these events as if they have the historical importance of the Berlin airlift. I begin to feel a little ill, as if I’ve eaten some bad chicken marsala or something. Which I think might be a good sign, actually.
The E! channel is covering a story that involved Bruce Willis walking down a red carpet. He was smiling, perhaps winking, allowing his ecstatic public to touch his hands, his team of publicists and agents and hangers-on in tow.
Not long ago, I had read about the Romans and their official triumphal marches, and this seemed a weird modern echo, but without the slaves in chains, at least not visible ones. The Roman triumph was given when a general had slain at least five thousand of the enemy. That was the minimum. The victorious general, says the Britannica, rode on a chariot festooned with laurel, wearing a purple-and-gold tunic and toga, clutching a laurel branch in his right hand and an ivory scepter in his left.
But here’s the part that fascinated me: “A slave held a golden crown over the general’s head while repeatedly reminding him in the midst of his glory that he was a mortal man.”
Brilliant. That’s exactly what we need on our red carpets. We need some production assistant following behind Bruce Willis, whispering in his ear: “You’re a mortal man. You’re just some putz with good orthodonture who says lines from a script. You are not a god.” We need some enforced humility in today’s society. It seems to be a lost virtue.
triumvirate
A couple of more weeks till Millionaire, and I’m still cramming like Thomas Jefferson on a bender (as a young man, he studied fifteen hours a day, practiced violin for three, and spent the remaining six eating or sleeping).
I take time out to choose my lifelines. These are the folks who will be waiting by their phones to help me in case Meredith asks me a stumper of a question. My friend Mike offered to be my lifeline for any and all juice-related questions (he works for a smoothie company). A nice offer. But in the end, I settle on Ron Hoeflin—he of the nosebleed-altitude IQ—and Dave Sampugnaro, the five-time Jeopardy! champ.
Also Eric. Yes, my brother-in-law and nemesis (the original Nemesis, by the way, was a Greek goddess of vegetation who had sex with Zeus-disguised-as-a-swan). I struggled with this one, but I figure we’re talking about a million bucks here. A million bucks would soothe my ego just fine. The man just knows too much information not to be a lifeline. I accepted this a couple of weeks ago when, in response to his mom’s question about the historical accuracy of Ben Hur, Eric gave a startling century-by-century history of the Roman Empire—from the first triumvirate (Julius Caesar, Pompey, Marcus Crassus) right on up to the death of the Holy Roman Empire. I tried to keep up—I threw in a reference to the Visigoths and another to the Ostrogoths—but Eric just trampled me. I went home and checked on his facts. Sadly, they were all correct.
Soon after, I pop the question. “Eric, would you do me the honor of being my lifeline on Millionaire?”
“You want me as a lifeline?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if I help you win a million, what kind of financial remuneration will I get?”
I think for a second.
“Well, I’ll give you ten percent of my winnings. But if you screw up, you have to reimburse me for the entire amount that I lost.”
In that case, Eric said, he’d do it for free. Julie beamed. She was proud of my hard bargaining.
I figure I’d put Eric to work early. I had noticed a quirk in the way Millionaire pays out its reward money. In the fine print of the ream of documents they sent me, it said that $250,000 is paid in one lump sum—but $500,000 and $1,000,000 are paid out over ten and twenty years, respectively. If you factored in inflation and lost investment opportunities, could $250,000 actually be a better deal? I hope so. I figure that would be a great moment in Millionaire history: I stop at $250,000 and explain to Meredith the intricacies of amortized payments. So I ask Eric—the former investment banker—to crunch the numbers.
He e-mails back that $1,000,000 over twenty years came out to $540,000 in today’s dollars. That’s before taxes, mind you—but it is still more cash than the other options. Damn. Now I really have to try to win the million.
Trotsky, Leon
Julie’s breasts have ballooned up so much that she walks around the apartment holding them in place with her hands. It’s very distracting when I’m trying to read about trolls (they burst into flame when hit by sunlight) and Trotsky (killed in Mexico by an axe murderer).
Trump, Donald
I am watching an HBO documentary with Julie, and the Britannica makes a surprise cameo. Not a flattering one, though. The documentary is called Born Rich, and follows the frivolous lives of a
bunch of young heirs—the heir to the Johnson & Johnson fortune, the daughter of Donald Trump (he owns more than twenty-five thousand apartments, by the way). These privileged tools were each sitting on some serious coin. Add up their trust funds, and it’d rival Pizarro’s collection of treasures (the conquistador collected a ransom of twenty-four tons of gold and silver for the Inca emperor Atahuallpa—whom he then killed).
Anyway, the documentary features some guy from an obscure branch of the European ruling class. He has a superior accent, well-oiled hair, and a nice chunk of his parents’ textile fortune. He spends much of his leisure time—which he has in abundance—ordering around his personal tailor; he tells us he found improperly positioned lapels “vulgar.” Truly the most odious of heirs. Then at one point, he shows the viewers his eleventh edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica and explains that this was the last time the Britannica was good. Since then, it had “become for the masses. Now, the Encyclopaedia Britannica is, you know … sheeet.” What a putz. What right does he have to insult my beloved Britannica? Read 28 million words of it, then come back and talk to me.
This guy—whose name I don’t remember—is a walking argument for the sweeping revision of inheritance laws. The Britannica’s inheritance section says that primitive food gatherers destroyed a person’s belongings—his weapons, his bowls—upon his death. Also, the Papua of New Guinea burned the hut of a dead man. Maybe we could learn something from this. Maybe we should burn the Jaguars and Nokia cell phones of these people’s parents when they die. Or at least redistribute them.
It’s possible our whiny aristocrat doesn’t like the current edition because it points out that proinheritance arguments have lost a lot of force. Nowadays, you don’t need inheritance to guarantee the continuance of business. In general, business is handed from CEO to CEO, not from father to son. So the economy would presumably keep humming if Ivanka Trump had to start driving a Hyundai and eating at KFC. The world’s economy wouldn’t suffer if this European nitwit had to join the masses he finds so sheety.
