No degree, no teacher, no permission — just the work.

What does a man who made three fortunes — in indigo, saltpeter, and Sacramento gold dust — do for an encore at forty-eight?

What do you do when the man who twice tried to take your patent in court turns around and offers you a job?

She started on Masonite, then cookie sheets, then scallop shells, then the breadbox — and then she ran out of small things.

What does a composer do when the bulldozers show up before the last take is finished?

What does it take for a toll collector who painted tigers in his off-hours to end up enthroned on a packing crate at a banquet thrown by Picasso?

For ten years, a Chicago dishwasher kept a secret diary grading the local weatherman against reality.

Who feeds a band one cup of soybeans a day for a month and calls it rehearsal?

The man who invented vulcanized rubber spent $30,000 he didn't have to build a palace of rubber furniture inside a building made of glass.

A deaf arithmetic teacher in a Kaluga log cabin derived the rocket equation between marking schoolboys' sums, and kept a trapdoor in his ceiling his family called the door to outer space.

What does an 82-year-old who just solved the longitude problem do for an encore?

What do you do when a voice in your head orders you to write, the verse is catastrophic, and the Queen's polite rejection reads, to you, like a coronation?

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