genius

Carl Wilhelm Scheele discovered oxygen, chlorine, and more elements than almost anyone in the eighteenth century. Working alone in Swedish pharmacies, he identified each substance by tasting it. Mercury compounds. Arsenic. Hydrogen cyanide, which he found pleasantly sharp. His hands swelled. His joints ached. His body filled with what he'd catalogued. He died at forty-three, notebooks open, descriptions precise. The poisons tasted exactly as he said they would.

Mary Anning discovered the first ichthyosaur skeleton at twelve, the first complete plesiosaur, the first British pterosaur. She taught herself anatomy, geology, and French to read Cuvier. Leading geologists consulted her before publishing. She could not join the Geological Society, attend meetings, or put her name on a paper. She went to the cliffs anyway — every day, in every weather, racing the tides. Her neighbors had a theory: at fifteen months old, she survived a lightning strike that killed three women instantly. Before it, she'd been sickly and listless. After, she was something else entirely.

In 1913, a clerk in Madras sent 120 theorems to Cambridge. He had no degree and had failed out of college twice for refusing to study anything but math. G.H. Hardy rated himself a 25 out of 100 for mathematical ability. He gave Ramanujan 100. Ramanujan said a goddess showed him formulas in dreams. He died at thirty-two. Mathematicians are still proving him right.

Henry Cavendish discovered hydrogen, proved water was a compound, and weighed the Earth to within 1% accuracy. He also ordered mutton every night, communicated with servants only by note, and built a second staircase to avoid his housekeeper.

Tesla invented AC power and held 300 patents. He also required exactly 18 napkins per meal, walked around blocks three times, and loved a white pigeon. When she died, he knew he was done. He was right.