Q&A: Chatting with a real know-it-all
Sunday, October 17, 2004
John Hassell, Newhouse News Service
Many people, assaulted by the cerebral barrage that is the Information Age, long for nothing more than an occasional day of quiet, far from the glow of computer monitors, television screens and the endless iterations of the 24-hour news cycle. No more information, thank you very much.
Then there is A.J. Jacobs. An editor at Esquire magazine, Jacobs responded to the miasma of modern life a couple of years ago by embarking on an unusual -- some would say insane -- mission: He set out to read the entire Encyclopedia Britannica from front to back. Not in one sitting, mind you. Still ...
Over the course of a year, Jacobs plowed through 33,000 pages, 65,000 articles and 44 million words -- beginning with "a-ak" ("Ancient East Asian music. See gagaku.") and ending with "Zywiec" (a town in south central Poland known for its large breweries and a 16th-century sculpture called "The Dormant Virgin").
Then he wrote a book about it, " The Know-It-All: One Man's Humble Quest to Become the Smartest Person in the World," which is being published this month. Like an encyclopedia, the book relates Jacobs' experience in alphabetical order, chronicling the entries, both trivial and profound, that struck him along the way.
Jacobs, who lives in New York City, spoke recently to Perspective editor John Hassell about his unusual sense of adventure, his newfound knowledge and his long-suffering spouse.
The obvious question first: What were you thinking?
Well, I felt like my IQ was dropping by five points or so for every year I was out of college, and I decided I needed to do something to stop that.
I got the idea from my father. He started to read it years ago, but he only got up to the mid-Bs. I thought I should remove the black stain from our family name and complete the task.
I also did it as a quest. I felt I hadn't accomplished anything in my life. And this was a quest I could undertake while sitting on my couch, as opposed to climbing Mt. Everest.
Why the Britannica?
You've got to go to the top. You've got to go to Everest. It's the Cadillac of encyclopedias, the longest published encyclopedia in the world. Why not start there?
Is there something disorienting and arbitrary about reading a summary of human knowledge in alphabetical order?
It's totally disorienting. I would compare it to flipping channels on cable TV. You go from the Abominable Snowman to Abyssinia. But for me, growing up on MTV, that's appealing. You get bored of one subject, and here comes another.
Speaking of jumping from one subject to another, I'd like to pick out some of the encyclopedia entries you mention in your book and ask you what you remember about them. Kind of like a pop quiz.
Sure. Let's give it a try.
OK, let's start with Philo Farnsworth. Who was he?
I can thank him for many lost hours of my youth. He was a pioneer of TV. The first image he broadcast was the image of a dollar sign -- which I think was prescient, because not much of TV today is pro bono.
Here's a good one: Haboob.
That's a sandstorm that can reach 3,000 feet in height, a huge storm. At times I felt like I was in my own haboob during this whole project, trapped in an information storm that I couldn't see out from.
Vinaigrette.
It's not just a salad dressing. It was a little device worn by people in the 18th century. They would put lavender and vinegar in it, and it was partially to smell good. When you think about it, it's kind of funny: Everybody smelled like a walking salad.
David Garrick.
He was an English actor and theater owner in the 18th century. He reformed the theater by ending the practice of reimbursing people if they walked out of shows early.
I don't like this guy. That was a terrible reform. The way I look at it, there should be a meter on theater seats, like a taxi meter. The shorter you stay, the less you pay.
Yodel.
I was happy to see the Swiss don't have a monopoly on yodeling. Pygmies and Australian aborigines also yodel. I thought that was nice.
Lastly, since we're in a presidential election year: Dan Rice.
He was probably the most famous clown of the 19th century, and he was a contender for the presidential election of 1868. He lost, but I wish he had won. He was also famous for his tightrope-walking elephant.
Did you come across anything interesting about New Jersey?
Of course. One of Newark's famous citizens was a man named Seth Boyden. He's famous for his shoe manufacturing and malleable cast iron. He was also the developer of a bigger and better strawberry.
I learned something reassuring about the Holland Tunnel, too. I have an irrational fear of brain damage, but the Britannica tells us that the tunnel has a remarkable ventilation system, and refreshes the air every 90 seconds.
What a relief. Who needs an encyclopedia when we have Google? Can the printed word ever keep up with the Internet?
I love Google, but it's not always the most trustworthy. It's nice to have a port in the information storm, and the Britannica is something you can really trust. And they have a Web site, too.
How would you describe the writing style of the Encyclopedia Britannica?
In earlier editions, it was very literary and florid, and they had everyone from Einstein to Freud to Houdini writing for it. Now, it's a little less florid and a little more scientific.
But one thing I loved is that it's a fair and balanced piece of work. Take the entry on the Black Plague. They tell us the plague killed off a third of Europe, sure, but it also opened up labor markets and allowed capitalism to flourish.
You're a magazine editor. What do you suppose the most significant differences are be tween editing Esquire and editing the Encyclopedia Britannica?
Most of the material I edit is in the front section of Esquire. That's where the shorter pieces appear. Like Esquire, the Britannica has two parts. The "micropedia," which is similar to the magazine section I edit, consists of short squibs. That's the part I like the best.
Then there's the part of the encyclopedia that's like the feature well of the magazine, where articles can be 50 or 60 pages long. Those are the heavy-lifting pieces you have to read in the morning because your brain melts.
What was, for you, the single most disappointing omission in the encyclopedia?
My wife complained about the lack of Tom Cruise. I was lucky enough to make a trip to the Britannica's headquarters, and I told the editors about my wife's disappointment. They took notes. I'm hoping they'll include him in the next edition, he'll call me to say thanks, and we'll all go out to dinner.
Do you have a favorite fact?
That's hard. I've got about 50.
Did you know, for example, that the philosopher Rene Descartes had a fetish for women with crossed eyes? I like that one.
I also like the fact that the history of canned laughter dates back to the 1800s, when French theater owners hired people to sit in the audience and laugh at comedies. They also hired people to cry during dramas.
One of my least favorite facts: After age 20, humans lose 50,000 brain cells a day.
As you crammed all of this information into your head, did you feel like you were pushing out other things?
By the end, I had trouble. I felt it pushed out a good amount of my pop-culture knowledge, in particular. When I finished, I had forgotten which Baldwin brother was which. But maybe that was a good thing.
Beyond trivia, what did you learn from this masochistic feat?
One of the best lessons was that, for all its horribleness and all its problems, today is probably the best time in history to be alive. You read about life in previous centuries, and they had it much worse than we do. In France during the 18th century, life expectancy was 30 years. I'd be dead five or six years already.
I also learned a very practical lesson: When your wife has a rash, it's best not to compare it to the Great Red Spot on Jupiter.
