Masters of the insult, the exit line, and the well-timed chicken.

What does a man who crossed the Empty Quarter twice on a camel pack for a Himalayan winter?

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

In 1920, an Albanian delegation walked into the League of Nations looking for a king and asked the nearest plausible Englishman.

What kind of man asks his colleagues to poke him awake if he stops breathing, and considers a perforated eardrum a social asset?

What does it take to invent modern estate planning, compose polytonal symphonies on weekends, and then leave a Pulitzer-winning piece in a drawer for thirty-six years?

He owned two half-empty suitcases, had 511 collaborators, and once won a $500 bet he immediately regretted.

What happens when a man Stravinsky called Britain's best composer places a classified ad selling elephants he doesn't own — and names the buyers?

What kind of person files pear blossoms under "most vulgar thing in the world" and then puts functional tweezers on the same list as the impossibility of lasting love?

What kind of person collects boats but can't swim, collects cars but can't drive, and flies six continents while terrified of planes — and what cartoon character did he accidentally become?

What kind of woman eats cold oatmeal for lunch, sleeps with a revolver tied to her hand, and gets a personal visit from J.P. Morgan asking for financial advice?

He correctly described the structure of all matter in the universe. Plato tried to have his books burned. Plato won.

He had a second, fancier iron hand built for Sundays.