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

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

He showed up in overalls and gumboots, removed his dentures, and asked if he could run.

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

What happens when a former barber decides to stitch a beating heart by lamplight, twelve years after the most famous surgeon on Earth said it couldn't be done?

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

He grafted a human tooth onto a rooster's head to see what would happen. It grew.

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

He inoculated himself with a patient's discharge to settle a scientific question, and his reputation was so enormous that nobody checked his work for fifty-one years.

He tripped on a stone in 1879 and spent the next thirty-three years building a palace out of the ones he found on the way home.

He discovered oxygen two years before the man history credits with discovering oxygen.

He described hydrogen cyanide as having a 'pleasantly sharp acidulous flavor,' the way someone else might describe a good Riesling.

A goddess wrote equations on his tongue in dreams, and when mathematicians finally checked his work, he was right.