People who were told no and heard it as a dare.

Sam Patch's final act opened with him shoving a bear cub off a hundred-foot waterfall in front of eight thousand people.

How do you smuggle a corpse past the city guards without anyone asking questions?

She swam thirteen miles down the Thames, twenty-two down the Danube, and got arrested walking onto a beach in Boston.

A loom took half her scalp at thirteen; she spent the next eighty-seven years deciding what the world was allowed to see.

He fed three thousand people in an afternoon, banned the word "hello" because it contained "hell," and quietly let his followers know he was God.

In 1926 a twenty-year-old swam the English Channel faster than any man alive — and her trainer spent the worst hour of it begging her to quit.

Her court priest kept a diary of what the widow queen of Jhansi did before breakfast, and the list begins with weightlifting.

She told her relatives she was going on a pilgrimage, packed one carpetbag, and did not come back for sixteen years.

What does a woman do after horsewhipping a Prussian gendarme, a Ballarat editor, and assembling a private army of law students?

A Greek priest's daughter, taken by raiders at fourteen, spent the next forty-six years running the Ottoman Empire from behind a latticed screen above the Imperial Council.

Her husband, her son, and the neighbor all had reasons — and the mourners brought cornbread to the grave.

A woman in a Manhattan parlor convinced the nineteenth century that Tibetan Masters were mailing her letters through the ceiling, and somehow we are all still speaking her language.