Retreated from the world and found something there.

Marcel Proust wrote most of his novel in a cork-lined bedroom he fumigated five times a day with a hallucinogenic nightshade powder.

On rainy mornings, a Georgian peer walked miles to the sea to swim while his liveried footman, on the peer's orders, rode dry in the empty carriage behind him.

He walked into the North Sea at night until the water reached his neck, and sang psalms until dawn.

What kind of hermit hires two armed guards, then hands out gin to two hundred children through the bars of his window?

What do you call a woman who wouldn't cross the lawn for Emerson, but rigged a rope from her window for children she refused to greet at the door?

He calculated that ten hours of punching holes produced ten seconds of music, and he kept punching for forty years.

How does a shrimp seller who couldn't swim, living alone on a sandspit reachable only by boat, end up on Betty Parsons's walls beside Pollock and Rothko?

What happens when a philosopher who hated water contracts a disease made of it?

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 do for twenty-five years after walking offstage at the Paris Conservatoire in disgust?

He sailed to Tahiti, India, and Japan in 1920 and never left his cabin — so what exactly was he doing in there?

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