Couldn't stop, wouldn't stop, didn't see why anyone would ask.

What does a 19th-century empress do in a room called the Toilette- und Turnzimmer?

Why would the man who invented the bit build a unicycle that bobbed up and down on purpose?

Issued one pencil a week, he spent thirty-five years balancing the ledgers of a universe he'd crowned himself emperor of.

He owned two half-empty suitcases, had 511 collaborators, and once won a $500 bet he immediately regretted.

How do you lose the face of the man who coined the word cell, wrote a law of physics, and rebuilt half of London?

He kept a shoebox labeled Mouse Material; the archivist who finally opened it found the contents of a vacuum cleaner.

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?

If you sealed your life story in an ancient jar, hid it with a chest of gold, and someone paid $48,000 for it six years ago — would you want to know why they never cracked the wax?

What do you find when you open a grave that belonged to a man who never stopped walking?

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

What happens when a man's collection outgrows every method of counting except weight?

What happens when a man who sleeps on a sofa because his bedroom is full of manuscripts finally has to move houses?