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

How did a blonde Frenchman convince 1700s London he was from Formosa?

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?

What was the headlining stripper at Minsky's doing at the dinner table with Auden, Britten, and McCullers?

He fed three thousand people in an afternoon, banned the word "hello" because it contained "hell," and quietly let his followers know he was God.

What happens when a car company asks a sixty-seven-year-old Pulitzer poet to name their next sedan?

She told her relatives she was going on a pilgrimage, packed one carpetbag, and did not come back for sixteen years.

What does a chess grandmaster do when his brain is hijacked, mid-game, by a children's poem about a stuck hippopotamus?

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?