Did it all for someone — or something — and never wavered.

A country doctor famous for birds made two small cuts in his gardener's eight-year-old son — and then did it again, and again, for years.

In 1841 a celebrated English poet walked out of his asylum and covered eighty miles in four days, eating grass and his own pipe tobacco, to reach a childhood sweetheart he was certain was waiting for him.

What do you do when worms keep falling out of the ulcer on your foot, fifty feet above the ground, and you've been standing on a pillar for thirty-seven years?

What kind of performer turns down every replacement for a seat that no longer has a seat?

A college dropout found him in four days with a bucket list.

A bishop sealed her inside a stone room, and she stayed for forty years — then T.S. Eliot quoted her during the Blitz.

He rode a caiman like a horse, built the world's first nature reserve, and accidentally set in motion the theory of evolution.

She was in a taxi crash at seventy-five and discovered she could now sing a higher F than ever before. She did not sue. She sent cigars.

He never let anyone watch him work.

Every child who has ever ridden the Haunted Mansion passed through her grief and never knew.

When Trinity College banned dogs from student rooms, Byron checked the statutes, confirmed they said nothing about bears, and installed one.