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

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?

If he memorized 7,000 pieces but only 100 words, what exactly was he listening for?

What happens when a woman who holds thirty-six patents and hates cleaning drags a garden hose into her kitchen?

What happens when a blind composer in a Viking helmet stands on the same Manhattan corner for thirty years and becomes more famous silent than playing?

What kind of person buries a 1927 Hudson in their backyard and denies owning a car?