Retreated from the world and found something there.

A Victorian poet built a second house identical to his first, same rooms, same floor plan, so his cat wouldn't feel disoriented.

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

Paul Dirac's colleagues measured his speech in a unit they invented: one word per hour.

She was being read by twelve million people a day and answered every fan letter by hand. So she dynamited a boulder on a treeless rock and built somewhere to hide.

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?

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

What does a man who spent four years managing pipes hear when a frog hits a pond?

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?

Every night for years, Hans Christian Andersen left a note on his bedside table that read: "I only appear to be dead."

He crossed every ocean alone and considered learning to swim entirely pointless.

When the council rehoused him on the top floor of a tower block, it was specifically to discourage tunnelling.