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

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.

He shipped coal to Newcastle during a miners' strike and sold every piece at a premium.

He kept pigs as hunting dogs, trained otters to fish, and when the King of England finally summoned him to court, he had a scheduling conflict.

He delivered three-hour speeches that left grown legislators pale and silent, in a voice that never finished puberty.