The Know-It-All Read online

  The British ethical philosopher—who advocated the greatest good for the greatest number of people—died in 1834. “After Bentham’s death, in accordance with his directions, his body was dissected in the presence of his friends. The skeleton was then reconstructed, supplied with a wax head to replace the original (which had been mummified), dressed in Bentham’s own clothes, and set upright in a glass-fronted case. Both this effigy and the head are preserved in University College, London.” Not sure how that contributes to the greater good of mankind. The greater creepiness, yes.

  Berserkers

  Savage Norse soldiers from the middle ages who, it is said, went into battle naked. Hence “going berserk.” So to truly go berserk, you should take off your pants. Noted.

  Beuys, Joseph

  A German avant-garde performance artist whose most famous piece was entitled How to Explain Pictures to a Dead Hare. For the piece, “Beuys covered his head with honey and gold leaf, wore one shoe soled with felt and one with iron, and walked through an art gallery for about two hours, quietly explaining the art therein to a dead hare he carried.”

  Huh. And for this he gets himself written up in the encyclopedia. Maybe I’m a philistine, but I don’t see the brilliance of this. If he explained pictures to a dead hamster or a dead iguana—yes, that would be ingenious. But a dead hare? Eh. Feels lazy.

  birth control

  The condom, according to legend, was invented by a British physician named Dr. Condom, who was alarmed by Charles II’s growing flock of illegitimate offspring. That’s the legend, anyway. The sober Britannica instead endorses the theory that the condom is named for the Latin word condus, which means a receptacle. The condom, the pill, the IUD, the vasectomy—they all get their proper due in this section. But I prefer the creativity of the earlier birth control techniques, which ranged from the delicious (using honey as a spermicide) to the aerobic (jumping backward seven times after coitus).

  Those are good to know. Very relevant. I tell Julie not to jump backward seven times after sex and to keep honey safely above her belt. We can’t afford any mishaps. For the past year, Julie and I have been trying to have a baby. We’re getting a bit desperate. It doesn’t help that all of Julie’s friends are breeding like the female octopus, which lays and cares for 150,000 eggs. They’re frighteningly fertile, her friends. They seem to get pregnant if they brush up against their husbands in the hallway. Which means there’s a growing platoon of diaper-wearing creatures stomping through our lives, and an accompanying fleet of fold-up strollers and car seats. Meanwhile, Julie and I have nothing. Zilch. It’s infuriating.

  And it’s not for want of effort. We follow her ovulations like a day trader follows the Nasdaq. She takes her temperature every morning, she makes charts and notes and annotations. Spreadsheets are involved. Still, bubkes. The Britannica points out that despite the widespread myth, women don’t need orgasms to conceive. Which is a very good thing for us, because at this point, our sex life has become about as erotic as artificial respiration (which, by the way, should be given at a rate of twelve breaths per minute).

  I suppose the world isn’t screaming out for another child. Each week, the Britannica says, 1.4 million more people are born into this world than leave it. But I can’t help it—I really want one of those little drooling, burping eight-pound creatures. I didn’t expect to want a kid this badly, but I do. I yearn to be a dad.

  Not that I’m ready. I’m pretty sure I’m way too self-absorbed and immature—and ignorant. When I was growing up, my father knew the answers to all the Frequently Asked Children’s Questions: How far down does dirt go? Why don’t the Chinese fall off the earth? Why do the leaves change color? He knew how things worked—why the fridge was cold, how the water got to our sink. I’ve forgotten all that knowledge. Maybe I’ll feel better at Z.

  bobsledding

  The name comes from the early—and probably mistaken—belief that if the sledders bobbed their heads back and forth, it would increase the speed. Okay, ready for the sports bar.

  book

  The United Nations defines a book as a text that is at least forty-nine pages long. By that definition, the Britannica equals 673 books. Unsettling.

  Braille, Louis

  Just as unsettling: the number of prodigies in the Britannica. Braille developed his writing system for the blind at age fifteen. Bentham—the one who later had himself mummified—was studying Latin at the age of four. (When I was four, I was studying the effects of shoving bananas up my nose.) At age five, Aleksandr Blok was writing memorable Russian poetry. If I had known about these whiz kids back when I thought I was the smartest boy in the world, I wonder if I would have seen them as compadres, or if it would have snapped me out of my dream.

  brain

  Here, the ovoid tangle of neurons that, I hope, will be encoding every mountain range and vice president and 15th-century Icelandic bishop. The Britannica’s brain-related highlights so far: the Greeks believed that it produced mucus, which gives new meaning to blowing your brains out. Also, if I ever take up boxing, I should do the old bare-knuckle style, which ironically causes less devastation to the neurons. (Bare-knuckle boxers rarely hit on the head for fear of breaking their hands.) With my mortal fear of brain damage, this is important information.

  brandy

  This liquor was allegedly invented when a Dutch shipmaster concentrated wine, planning to add water to it when he arrived on shore. He never got a chance. Everyone started dipping into the concentrate. Impatience has its advantages.

  broccoli

  Julie and I arrive at my parents’ apartment for the holiday gift exchange. It’s sort of Hanukkah-related, but since we’re not so religious, we throw a nod to New Year’s for good measure.

  Mom greets us at the door.

  “Happy Holidays!” she says, giving us each a kiss on the cheek. “And Happy 2003.”

  “Actually, technically, it’s probably ‘Happy 2007,’ ” I say.

  “Really?” says Mom. “Why is that?”

  “Well, because scientists believe Jesus was actually born between 4 and 6 B.C.”

  By this time, Julie has long since departed for the safety of the living room. But Mom, being my mom, is stuck listening. She’s supportive of everything I do, not counting the time my sister and I took hang gliding lessons from a Deadhead or all those open car windows in arctic temperatures.

  I explain to Mom that the Bible talks about Jesus’ birth coinciding with the Star of Bethlehem, which wasn’t a star at all, but an astronomical phenomenon. It was either a nova that occurred in 5 B.C. or the combined light of Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn, which all nearly lined up in 6 B.C.

  “Well, then, Happy 2007,” she says.

  God bless Mom. I have to remember to hang out with her more often.

  As for the gift exchange, I get a sweater and some pants. My sister Beryl and her husband, Willy, give me a couple books that I can’t even imagine reading until 2008 or so.

  Julie—a master gift buyer—had scoured catalogues and stores to get my family exceedingly appropriate presents. I was happy to take partial credit. In my defense, I did help write the cards, including my masterpiece, the one to Beryl, which started: “Dear Be3Al2(SiO3)6.”

  “This is for me, right?” Beryl asks.

  “Yep. That’s the chemical symbol for the beryl mineral.”

  “I thought that might be it.”

  “One of the largest beryls was found in Brazil—two hundred tons. So compared to that, you’re very skinny.”

  That came out wrong. I had somehow just called my sister fat, which she isn’t, and which I would like to take back, but it’s too late.

  After the gift exchange, we all clean up the mess of wrapping paper and ribbons that has accumulated on the floor.

  “So I’ve officially passed you,” I say to my dad, as we take out the holiday detritus. “I’m in the late B’s.”

  “Anything interesting?” he asks.

  “I was just reading about b
roccoli. You know, it’s officially classed as a type of cabbage.”

  My dad nods his head. “I’ve got a good fact for you,” says my dad. “You know the speed of light, right?”

  “Yes. 186,000 miles per second.”

  “Yes, but do you know it in fathoms per fortnight?”

  “What?”

  “Do you know the speed of light in fathoms per fortnight?”

  “Uh, don’t think I do.”

  My dad tells me that he has calculated the speed of light in fathoms per fortnight so that he can be the only person in the world who knows that particular piece of information. That, as my mother would say, is “very Arnie.”

  “It’s 1.98 × 1014” he says.

  “Wow. Really fascinating.” My tone is definitely snappish, aggressive. My dad looks a little hurt. I’m not sure why I said it the way I did—I guess I felt he’d one-upped me—but it wasn’t in the holiday spirit, that’s for sure.

  bruise

  My left eye has turned a bright lobster shell red. I’m not positive it’s tied to my exhausting marathon reading sessions, but I like to think it is. I consider it my first Britannica-related injury, and I wear it proudly. Though I don’t want to go blind like your average early blues singer (Blind Willie McTell, Blind Boy Fuller, Blind Lemon Jefferson), a little manly eyestrain seems appropriate.

  Julie got concerned and has bought me several bags of baby carrots to help my rods and cones. Carrots, by the way, are a close cousin of hemlock (both in the Apiaceae family), so I’m hoping Julie didn’t mix the two up.

  Brutus

  I was familiar with Brutus, the one featured in Shakespeare’s classic line “Et tu, Brute.” But what I didn’t know was that there were two Brutuses who took part in Caesar’s assassination, Brutus Albinus and Brutus Marcus. But only one Brutus—Marcus—gets all the headlines. That poor sap Brutus Albinus—also a protégé of Caesar’s—needed a better publicist. “Et tu, Brute. Et tu, Brute, too?” I can’t be certain, but the forgotten Brutus seems to have been the more powerful one at the time. After the assassination, this Brutus led an army against Antony; he lost, and was killed by a Gallic chieftain on Antony’s orders. Ignored by history or killed by a Frenchman—I’m not sure which is sadder.

  burial

  Here’s something I’m learning: what a shockingly conventional thinker I am. Despite my liberal cross-cultural education at Brown, despite my delusion that I can think creatively, I’m realizing that I’ve been trained to look at life in a very particular way.

  Consider burial. I always figured, when you are buried, your body is lying down on its back in the sleeping position. It just seemed natural. It never occurred to me that there were other options on this particular menu. But there are.

  The Britannica reveals that some early cultures buried their dead in a crouching or squatting position. Also, North American Indians buried their dead in a fetal position, with the knees tucked under the chin and the body neatly tied in a bundle. Other cultures have opted for upright burial, especially for warriors.

  This was startling to me. Without even realizing it, I’d always bought into the metaphor that death was the long sleep. But maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s the long gestation, so you should be in the fetal position. Or maybe it’s the long bus ride, so you should be standing.

  I like uncovering the cultural prejudices that I didn’t even know I had. Maybe these revelations will have a practical application someday. Maybe I’ll opt to be buried in the sitting position, remote control in hand. But for now, I feel that I’ve widened my perspective. And frankly, I feel ever so slightly superior, not only to my former self but to all those losers who think of burial as a horizontal affair. A small but important victory as I finish letter number two.

  C

  cappuccino

  EVERY ONCE IN a while I’ll know something more about a topic than the Britannica does. Such was the case with cappuccino. I happen to know that cappuccino got its name from the Capuchin monks, whose robes were light brown, the same color as coffee with steamed milk. Hence cappuccino. This fact was not in the Britannica; I learned this from an Italian cab driver when Julie and I went on vacation to the Amalfi coast last year. It’s a little thrill to feel like I’ve got the edge on the Britannica—a feeling that vanishes quickly in the ensuing pages, as I’m reminded of my epic ignorance.

  Caravaggio

  A great, groundbreaking, prolific 17th-century painter—and also a complete jackass. Caravaggio had a terrible temper, sort of the Sean Penn of his day. He got in trouble for tossing a plate of artichokes at a waiter’s face. He was arrested for throwing stones at the Roman Guards. And during a brawl over the score of a tennis match, he killed a man. After the murder, Caravaggio fled Rome, hopped from city to city, was arrested, escaped jail, was attacked at the door to an inn, pleaded for clemency from the pope—all the while continuing to paint his great, dark religious paintings. Finally, Caravaggio died of pneumonia—just three days before a document granting him clemency arrived from Rome.

  I hate the cliché of the tortured genius, of the temperamental artist—but unfortunately, maybe there’s something to it. Is that why I’m not a great artist? I’m not temperamental enough? I don’t throw enough plates of vegetables at waitstaff? There’s another mystery I hope to crack in the next 31,000 pages.

  Casanova

  The famous 18th-century lothario ended his life as a librarian. Librarians could use that to sex up their image.

  chalk

  Chalk used in classrooms is not actually made of chalk, but a manufactured substance. More reason to distrust my teachers, those weasels.

  Chang and Eng

  The original Siamese twins share a write-up, which is only appropriate. Just as appropriate: the write-up is twice as bizarre as the average Britannica fare. I learn that Chang and Eng were born in Siam in 1811 of a Chinese father and a half-Chinese mother. They were joined at the waist by a tubular band about three inches long and one inch in diameter, approximately the size of a D battery. Even as kids, that tube turned them into celebrities, winning them an audience with the king of Siam. In 1829, Chang and Eng went on tour, hitting the United States, Canada, Cuba, and Europe with a British merchant who kept their earnings, as you’d expect of a British merchant who would take anatomically deformed children on tour. After Chang and Eng turned twenty-one, says the Britannica, they took charge of their own tours and made themselves a small fortune.

  So far, so good—pretty much what I expected. But the next part I wouldn’t have guessed: with their money, Chang and Eng settled in Mount Airy, North Carolina, bought some land, adopted the surname Bunker, and took up farming. I like that image—just two farmers named Bunker who happen to share a liver. Their assimilation continued. In April 1843, Chang and Eng married a pair of sisters, Adelaide and Sarah Yates. They had a nice, functional system going. Chang and Eng maintained separate households 1.5 miles apart and alternated three-day visits with their respective spouses. The Britannica doesn’t explore the bedroom logistics—did Chang pretend to read the sports pages while Eng and Sarah were getting busy? Or did he get to peek if he stayed real quiet? Whatever the routine, it worked—each twin fathered several children. And that wasn’t the only physical activity they did—Chang and Eng were expert marksmen, could run quickly and swim well. There was talk when they first arrived in the States about getting surgically separated. Chang and Eng decided against it, not just because of the dangers, but because they adapted so remarkably well to their condition.

  During the American Civil War Chang and Eng lost much of their money, and in 1869 they once more went on tour in Europe. Chang, who was moodier than Eng, had begun boozing heavily. And then “in 1870, while returning to the United States from their successful tour, Chang had a paralytic stroke. Some four years later, during the night, Chang and Eng died, Chang preceding Eng by about three hours.”

  This is all very humbling. My sister and I used to complain about having to share the backseat of m
y parents’ Plymouth Valiant. The territorial squabbling got so intense that we had to mark off our respective sides with masking tape. (Inevitably, I’d try to provoke her by inching my pinky over to her side.) We whined about having to share motel rooms, a TV, a phone. And here are these two siblings who had to share a body, no less, and yet they made it work pretty well. The photo in the encyclopedia shows them wearing dapper waistcoats, leaning against Victorian furniture, their arms around each other’s shoulders, looking relaxed, content, and mildly aristocratic. It’s a touching photo. When I have kids—God willing—and they complain about having to share an Xbox, I’ll show them this photo. I’ve got three words for you two, I’ll say: Chang and Eng.

  character writer

  In 17th-century England, writers such as Sir Thomas Overbury and Joseph Hall drew up character sketches to exemplify a quality such as vanity or stinginess. I’m no Tom Overbury, but there’s someone in my life who calls out for a little character sketch. It’s Julie’s brother Eric, and the quality he exemplifies is brilliance. Or cockiness. Or smart-aleckness. Or some combination of the above. He’s a big part of the reason why I felt I needed to get smarter, so here goes …

  Eric is shockingly bright—as he’s happy to let you know. He went to Harvard, talks at a rapid clip, and quotes Latin aphorisms in his e-mails. After college, he took the Foreign Service exam because it was reputedly the hardest test in the world. He passed, but took it again because he wanted the highest score in the class. He got it.

  Eric’s the kind of guy who never needed braces, has rock-bottom cholesterol, and whose hair stubbornly refuses to recede. He’s even moderately good-looking, along the lines of a John Cusack.

  When Eric looks at me (his eyes, incidentally, are 20/20), it’s the same way I might look at a golden retriever. No matter how clever the golden retriever—even if it learns to flush the toilet or bark along to “Happy Birthday”—it’s still a golden retriever. A different species. And just as I get a chuckle from watching a golden retriever chase its tail, Eric has found amusement in my lack of knowledge about the Crimean War and my confusion between fission and fusion.