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

A road inspector for Le Corbusier's rationally planned Chandigarh spent eighteen years cycling into a protected forest after work to build a secret twelve-acre kingdom of gods and goddesses out of smashed pottery, broken bangles, and discarded toilet bowls.

The only Black member of the Edison Pioneers, the man who drafted Bell's telephone patent and fixed the lightbulb, wrote love poems on the side.

He was thrown out of a Trappist monastery with tuberculosis at thirty-five, and spent the next sixty years alone on a plot outside Madrid, building a cathedral with factory-reject bricks and pillars cast inside oil drums.

Eleanor Ormerod, the Royal Agricultural Society's consulting entomologist, kept live insect specimens in her pockets and produced them, unannounced, at meetings with farmers.

What do you do when you buy ten acres of California sunshine and discover it's a slab of rock at 120 degrees?

What does a 59-year-old Baptist preacher do when a face appears in a smudge of paint on his fingertip and tells him to start painting?

What does the richest man in America do when a photographer finally catches him on the street at age 80?

What do you do when you're convinced Napoleon's army is about to kill your pen pal mid-proof?

What does a self-taught artist do when the family finally retires the wood stove and his only source of ink disappears?

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.