Richard Fejnman. Vy, konechno, shutite, mister Fejnman! (angl.)
* OCR: "the real caterpillar".
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"Surely You're Joking, Mr. Feynman!"
by Richard P. Feynman
"Surely You're Joking, Mr Feynman!"
A Bantam Book
published by arrangement with
W.W. Norton Company, Inc.
PRINTING HISTORY
W.W. Norton edition published February 1985
9 printings through March 1985
A selection of Book-of-the-Month Club/Science April 1985 and
Macmillan Book Clubs April 1985.
Portions of this book appeared in Science '84 magazine December
1984 and in Discover magazine November 1984.
Bantam edition February 1986
Cover photo by Floyd Clark / Caltech.
All rights reserved.
Copyright (c) 1985 by Richard P. Feynman and Ralph Leighton.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or
any other means, without permission.
For information address: W.W. Norton Company, Inc., 500 Fifth Ave., New
York, NY 10110.
ISBN 0-553-25649-1
Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada
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Preface
The stories in this book were collected intermittently and informally
during seven years of very enjoyable drumming with Richard Feynman. I have
found each story by itself to be amusing, and the collection taken together
to be amazing: That one person could have so many wonderfully crazy things
happen to him in one life is sometimes hard to believe. That one person
could invent so much innocent mischief in one life is surely an inspiration!
Ralph Leighton
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Introduction
I hope these won't be the only memoirs of Richard Feynman. Certainly
the reminiscences here give a true picture of much of his character -- his
almost compulsive need to solve puzzles, his provocative mischievousness,
his indignant impatience with pretension and hypocrisy, and his talent for
one-upping anybody who tries to one-up him! This book is great reading:
outrageous, shocking, still warm and very human.
For all that, it only skirts the keystone of his life: science. We see
it here and there, as background material in one sketch or another, but
never as the focus of his existence, which generations of his students and
colleagues know it to be. Perhaps nothing else is possible. There may be no
way to construct such a series of delightful stories about himself and his
work: the challenge and frustration, the excitement that caps insight, the
deep pleasure of scientific understanding that has been the wellspring of
happiness in his life.
I remember when I was his student how it was when you walked into one
of his lectures. He would be standing in front of the hall smiling at us all
as we came in, his fingers tapping out a complicated rhythm on the black top
of the demonstration bench that crossed the front of the lecture hall. As
latecomers took their seats, he picked up the chalk and began spinning it
rapidly through his fingers in a manner of a professional gambler playing
with a poker chip, still smiling happily as if at some secret joke. And then
-- still smiling -- he talked to us about physics, his diagrams and
equations helping us to share his understanding. It was no secret joke that
brought the smile and the sparkle in his eye, it was physics. The joy of
physics! The joy was contagious. We are fortunate who caught that infection.
Now here is your opportunity to be exposed to the joy of life in the style
of Feynman.
Albert R. Hibbs
Senior Member of the Technical Staff,
Jet Propulsion Laboratory,
California Institute of Technology
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Vitals
Some facts about my timing: I was born in 1918 in a small town called
Far Rockaway, right on the outskirts of New York, near the sea. I lived
there until 1935, when I was seventeen. I went to MIT for four years, and
then I went to Princeton, in about 1939. During the time I was at Princeton
I started to work on the Manhattan Project, and I ultimately went to Los
Alamos in April 1943, until something like October or November 1946, when I
went to Cornell.
I got married to Arlene in 1941, and she died of tuberculosis while I
was at Los Alamos, in 1946.
I was at Cornell until about 1951. I visited Brazil in the summer of
1949 and spent half a year there in 1951, and then went to Caltech, where
I've been ever since.
I went to Japan at the end of 1951 for a couple of weeks, and then
again, a year or two later, just after I married my second wife, Mary Lou.
I am now married to Gweneth, who is English, and we have two children,
Carl and Michelle.
R. P. F.
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Part 1
From Far Rockaway to MIT
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He Fixes Radios by Thinking!
When I was about eleven or twelve I set up a lab in my house. It
consisted of an old wooden packing box that I put shelves in. I had a
heater, and I'd put in fat and cook french-fried potatoes all the time. I
also had a storage battery, and a lamp bank.
To build the lamp bank I went down to the five-and-ten and got some
sockets you can screw down to a wooden base, and connected them with pieces
of bell wire. By making different combinations of switches -- in series or
parallel -- I knew I could get different voltages. But what I hadn't
realized was that a bulb's resistance depends on its temperature, so the
results of my calculations weren't the same as the stuff that came out of
the circuit. But it was all right, and when the bulbs were in series, all
half-lit, they would gloooooooooow, very pretty -- it was great!
I had a fuse in the system so if I shorted anything, the fuse would
blow. Now I had to have a fuse that was weaker than the fuse in the house,
so I made my own fuses by taking tin foil and wrapping it around an old
burnt-out fuse. Across my fuse I had a five-watt bulb, so when my fuse blew,
the load from the trickle charger that was always charging the storage
battery would light up the bulb. The bulb was on the switchboard behind a
piece of brown candy paper (it looks red when a light's behind it) -- so if
something went off, I'd look up to the switchboard and there would be a big
red spot where the fuse went. It was fun!
I enjoyed radios. I started with a crystal set that I bought at the
store, and I used to listen to it at night in bed while I was going to
sleep, through a pair of earphones. When my mother and father went out until
late at night, they would come into my room and take the earphones off --
and worry about what was going into my head while I was asleep.
About that time I invented a burglar alarm, which was a very
simple-minded thing: it was just a big battery and a bell connected with
some wire. When the door to my room opened, it pushed the wire against the
battery and closed the circuit, and the bell would go off.
One night my mother and father came home from a night out and very,
very quietly, so as not to disturb the child, opened the door to come into
my room to take my earphones off. All of a sudden this tremendous bell went
off with a helluva racket -- BONG BONG BONG BONG BONG!!! I jumped out of bed
yelling, "It worked! It worked!"
I had a Ford coil -- a spark coil from an automobile -- and I had the
spark terminals at the top of my switchboard. I would put a Raytheon RH
tube, which had argon gas in it, across the terminals, and the spark would
make a purple glow inside the vacuum -- it was just great!
One day I was playing with the Ford coil, punching holes in paper with
the sparks, and the paper caught on fire. Soon I couldn't hold it any more
because it was burning near my fingers, so I dropped it in a metal
wastebasket which had a lot of newspapers in it. Newspapers burn fast, you
know, and the flame looked pretty big inside the room. I shut the door so my
mother -- who was playing bridge with some friends in the living room --
wouldn't find out there was a fire in my room, took a magazine that was
lying nearby, and put it over the wastebasket to smother the fire.
After the fire was out I took the magazine off, but now the room began
to fill up with smoke. The wastebasket was still too hot to handle, so I got
a pair of pliers, carried it across the room, and held it out the window for
the smoke to blow out.
But because it was breezy outside, the wind lit the fire again, and now
the magazine was out of reach. So I pulled the flaming wastebasket back in
through the window to get the magazine, and I noticed there were curtains in
the window -- it was very dangerous!
Well, I got the magazine, put the fire out again, and this time kept
the magazine with me while I shook the glowing coals out of the wastepaper
basket onto the street, two or three floors below. Then I went out of my
room, closed the door behind me, and said to my mother, "I'm going out to
play," and the smoke went out slowly through the windows. I also did some
things with electric motors and built an amplifier for a photo cell that I
bought that could make a bell ring when I put my hand in front of the cell.
I didn't get to do as much as I wanted to, because my mother kept putting me
out all the time, to play. But I was often in the house, fiddling with my
lab.
I bought radios at rummage sales. I didn't have any money, but it
wasn't very expensive -- they were old, broken radios, and I'd buy them and
try to fix them. Usually they were broken in some simple-minded way -- some
obvious wire was hanging loose, or a coil was broken or partly unwound -- so
I could get some of them going. On one of these radios one night I got WACO
in Waco, Texas -- it was tremendously exciting!
On this same tube radio up in my lab I was able to hear a station up in
Schenectady called WGN. Now, all of us kids -- my two cousins, my sister,
and the neighborhood kids -- listened on the radio downstairs to a program
called the Eno Crime Club -- Eno effervescent salts -- it was the thing!
Well, I discovered that I could hear this program up in my lab on WGN one
hour before it was broadcast in New York! So I'd discover what was going to
happen, and then, when we were all sitting around the radio downstairs
listening to the Eno Crime Club, I'd say, "You know, we haven't heard from
so-and-so in a long time. I betcha he comes and saves the situation."
Two seconds later, bup-bup, he comes! So they all got excited about
this, and I predicted a couple of other things. Then they realized that
there must be some trick to it -- that I must know, somehow. So I owned up
to what it was, that I could hear it upstairs the hour before.
You know what the result was, naturally. Now they couldn't wait for the
regular hour. They all had to sit upstairs in my lab with this little creaky
radio for half an hour, listening to the Eno Crime Club from Schenectady.
We lived at that time in a big house; it was left by my grandfather to
his children, and they didn't have much money aside from the house. It was a
very large, wooden house, and I would run wires all around the outside, and
had plugs in all the rooms, so I could always listen to my radios, which
were upstairs in my lab. I also had a loudspeaker -- not the whole speaker,
but the part without the big horn on it.
One day, when I had my earphones on, I connected them to the
loudspeaker, and I discovered something: I put my finger in the speaker and
I could hear it in the earphones; I scratched the speaker and I'd hear it in
the earphones. So I discovered that the speaker could act like a microphone,
and you didn't even need any batteries. At school we were talking about
Alexander Graham Bell, so I gave a demonstration of the speaker and the
earphones. I didn't know it at the time, but I think it was the type of
telephone he originally used.
So now I had a microphone, and I could broadcast from upstairs to
downstairs, and from downstairs to upstairs, using the amplifiers of my
rummage-sale radios. At that time my sister Joan, who was nine years younger
than I was, must have been about two or three, and there was a guy on the
radio called Uncle Don that she liked to listen to. He'd sing little songs
about "good children," and so on, and he'd read cards sent in by parents
telling that "Mary So-and-so is having a birthday this Saturday at 25
Flatbush Avenue."
One day my cousin Francis and I sat Joan down and said that there was a
special program she should listen to. Then we ran upstairs and we started to
broadcast: "This is Uncle Don. We know a very nice little girl named Joan
who lives on New Broadway; she's got a birthday coming -- not today, but
such-and-such. She's a cute girl." We sang a little song, and then we made
music: "Deedle leet deet, doodle doodle loot doot; deedle deedle leet,
doodle loot doot doo..." We went through the whole deal, and then we came
downstairs: "How was it? Did you like the program?"
"It was good," she said, "but why did you make the music with your
mouth?"
One day I got a telephone call: "Mister, are you Richard Feynman?"
"Yes."
"This is a hotel. We have a radio that doesn't work, and would like it
repaired. We understand you might be able to do something about it."
"But I'm only a little boy," I said. "I don't know how --"
"Yes, we know that, but we'd like you to come over anyway."
It was a hotel that my aunt was running, but I didn't know that. I went
over there with -- they still tell the story -- a big screwdriver in my back
pocket. Well, I was small, so any screwdriver looked big in my back pocket.
I went up to the radio and tried to fix it. I didn't know anything
about it, but there was also a handyman at the hotel, and either he noticed,
or I noticed, a loose knob on the rheostat -- to turn up the volume -- so
that it wasn't turning the shaft. He went off and filed something, and fixed
it up so it worked.
The next radio I tried to fix didn't work at all. That was easy: it
wasn't plugged in right. As the repair jobs got more and more complicated, I
got better and better, and more elaborate. I bought myself a milliammeter in
New York and converted it into a voltmeter that had different scales on it
by using the right lengths (which I calculated) of very fine copper wire. It
wasn't very accurate, but it was good enough to tell whether things were in
the right ballpark at different connections in those radio sets.
The main reason people hired me was the Depression. They didn't have
any money to fix their radios, and they'd hear about this kid who would do
it for less. So I'd climb on roofs to fix antennas, and all kinds of stuff.
I got a series of lessons of ever-increasing difficulty. Ultimately I got
some job like converting a DC set into an AC set, and it was very hard to
keep the hum from going through the system, and I didn't build it quite
right. I shouldn't have bitten that one off, but I didn't know.
One job was really sensational. I was working at the time for a
printer, and a man who knew that printer knew I was trying to get jobs
fixing radios, so he sent a fellow around to the print shop to pick me up.
The guy is obviously poor -- his car is a complete wreck -- and we go to his
house which is in a cheap part of town. On the way, I say, "What's the
trouble with the radio?"
He says, "When I turn it on it makes a noise, and after a while the
noise stops and everything's all right, but I don't like the noise at the
beginning."
I think to myself: "What the hell! If he hasn't got any money, you'd
think he could stand a little noise for a while."
And all the time, on the way to his house, he's saying things like, "Do
you know anything about radios? How do you know about radios -- you're just
a little boy!"
He's putting me down the whole way, and I'm thinking, "So what's the
matter with him? So it makes a little noise."
But when we got there I went over to the radio and turned it on. Little
noise? My God! No wonder the poor guy couldn't stand it. The thing began to
roar and wobble --WUH BUH BUH BUH BUH -- A tremendous amount of noise. Then
it quieted down and played correctly. So I started to think: "How can that
happen?"
I start walking back and forth, thinking, and I realize that one way it
can happen is that the tubes are heating up in the wrong order -- that is,
the amplifier's all hot, the tubes are ready to go, and there's nothing
feeding in, or there's some back circuit feeding in, or something wrong in
the beginning part -- the RF part -- and therefore it's making a lot of
noise, picking up something. And when the RF circuit's finally going, and
the grid voltages are adjusted, everything's all right.
So the guy says, "What are you doing? You come to fix the radio, but
you're only walking back and forth!"
I say, "I'm thinking!" Then I said to myself, "All right, take the
tubes out, and reverse the order completely in the set." (Many radio sets in
those days used the same tubes in different places -- 212's, I think they
were, or 212-A's.) So I changed the tubes around, stepped to the front of
the radio, turned the thing on, and it's as quiet as a lamb: it waits until
it heats up, and then plays perfectly -- no noise.
When a person has been negative to you, and then you do something like
that, they're usually a hundred percent the other way, kind of to
compensate. He got me other jobs, and kept telling everybody what a
tremendous genius I was, saying, "He fixes radios by thinking!" The whole
idea of thinking, to fix a radio -- a little boy stops and thinks, and
figures out how to do it -- he never thought that was possible.
Radio circuits were much easier to understand in those days because
everything was out in the open. After you took the set apart (it was a big
problem to find the right screws), you could see this was a resistor, that's
a condenser, here's a this, there's a that; they were all labeled. And if
wax had been dripping from the condenser, it was too hot and you could tell
that the condenser was burned out. If there was charcoal on one of the
resistors you knew where the trouble was. Or, if you couldn't tell what was
the matter by looking at it, you'd test it with your voltmeter and see
whether voltage was coming through. The sets were simple, the circuits were
not complicated. The voltage on the grids was always about one and a half or
two volts and the voltages on the plates were one hundred or two hundred,
DC. So it wasn't hard for me to fix a radio by understanding what was going
on inside, noticing that something wasn't working right, and fixing it.
Sometimes it took quite a while. I remember one particular time when it
took the whole afternoon to find a burned-out resistor that was not
apparent. That particular time it happened to be a friend of my mother, so I
had time -- there was nobody on my back saying, "What are you doing?"
Instead, they were saying, "Would you like a little milk, or some cake?" I
finally fixed it because I had, and still have, persistence. Once I get on a
puzzle, I can't get off. If my mother's friend had said, "Never mind, it's
too much work," I'd have blown my top, because I want to beat this damn
thing, as long as I've gone this far. I can't just leave it after I've found
out so much about it. I have to keep going to find out ultimately what is
the matter with it in the end.
That's a puzzle drive. It's what accounts for my wanting to decipher
Mayan hieroglyphics, for trying to open safes. I remember in high school,
during first period a guy would come to me with a puzzle in geometry, or
something which had been assigned in his advanced math class. I wouldn't
stop until I figured the damn thing out -- it would take me fifteen or
twenty minutes. But during the day, other guys would come to me with the
same problem, and I'd do it for them in a flash. So for one guy, to do it
took me twenty minutes, while there were five guys who thought I was a
super-genius.
So I got a fancy reputation. During high school every puzzle that was
known to man must have come to me. Every damn, crazy conundrum that people
had invented, I knew. So when I got to MIT there was a dance, and one of the
seniors had his girlfriend there, and she knew a lot of puzzles, and he was
telling her that I was pretty good at them. So during the dance she came
over to me and said, "They say you're a smart guy, so here's one for you: A
man has eight cords of wood to chop..."
And I said, "He starts by chopping every other one in three parts,"
because I had heard that one.
Then she'd go away and come back with another one, and I'd always know
it.
This went on for quite a while, and finally, near the end of the dance,
she came over, looking as if she was going to get me for sure this time, and
she said, "A mother and daughter are traveling to Europe..."
"The daughter got the bubonic plague." She collapsed! That was hardly
enough clues to get the answer to that one: It was the long story about how
a mother and daughter stop at a hotel and stay in separate rooms, and the
next day the mother goes to the daughter's room and there's nobody there, or
somebody else is there, and she says, "Where's my daughter?" and the hotel
keeper says, "What daughter?" and the register's got only the mother's name,
and so on, and so on, and there's a big mystery as to what happened. The
answer is, the daughter got bubonic plague, and the hotel, not wanting to
have to close up, spirits the daughter away, cleans up the room, and erases
all evidence of her having been there. It was a long tale, but I had heard
it, so when the girl started out with, "A mother and daughter are traveling
to Europe," I knew one thing that started that way, so I took a flying
guess, and got it.
We had a thing at high school called the algebra team, which consisted
of five kids, and we would travel to different schools as a team and have
competitions. We would sit in one row of seats and the other team would sit
in another row. A teacher, who was running the contest, would take out an
envelope, and on the envelope it says "forty-five seconds." She opens it up,
writes the problem on the blackboard, and says, "Go!" -- so you really have
more than forty-five seconds because while she's writing you can think. Now
the game was this: You have a piece of paper, and on it you can write
anything, you can do anything. The only thing that counted was the answer.
If the answer was "six books," you'd have to write "6," and put a big circle
around it. If what was in the circle was right, you won; if it wasn't, you
lost.
One thing was for sure: It was practically impossible to do the problem
in any conventional, straightforward way, like putting "A is the number of
red books, B is the number of blue books," grind, grind, grind, until you
get "six books." That would take you fifty seconds, because the people who
set up the timings on these problems had made them all a trifle short. So
you had to think, "Is there a way to see it?" Sometimes you could see it in
a flash, and sometimes you'd have to invent another way to do it and then do
the algebra as fast as you could. It was wonderful practice, and I got
better and better, and I eventually got to be the head of the team. So I
learned to do algebra very quickly, and it came in handy in college. When we
had a problem in calculus, I was very quick to see where it was going and to
do the algebra -- fast.
Another thing I did in high school was to invent problems and theorems.
I mean, if I were doing any mathematical thing at all, I would find some
practical example for which it would be useful. I invented a set of
right-triangle problems. But instead of giving the lengths of two of the
sides to find the third, I gave the difference of the two sides. A typical
example was: There's a flagpole, and there's a rope that comes down from the
top. When you hold the rope straight down, it's three feet longer than the
pole, and when you pull the rope out tight, it's five feet from the base of
the pole. How high is the pole?
I developed some equations for solving problems like that, and as a
result I noticed some connection -- perhaps it was sin^2 + cos^2 = 1 -- that
reminded me of trigonometry. Now, a few years earlier, perhaps when I was
eleven or twelve, I had read a book on trigonometry that I had checked out
from the library, but the book was by now long gone. I remembered only that
trigonometry had something to do with relations between sines and cosines.
So I began to work out all the relations by drawing triangles, and each one
I proved, by myself. I also calculated the sine, cosine, and tangent of
every five degrees, starting with the sine of five degrees as given, by
addition and half-angle formulas that I had worked out.
A few years later, when we studied trigonometry in school, I still had
my notes and I saw that my demonstrations were often different from those in
the book. Sometimes, for a thing where I didn't notice a simple way to do
it, I went all over the place till I got it. Other times, my way was most
clever -- the standard demonstration in the book was much more complicated!
So sometimes I had 'em beat, and sometimes it was the other way around.
While I was doing all this trigonometry, I didn't like the symbols for
sine, cosine, tangent, and so on. To me, "sin f" looked like s times i times
n times f! So I invented another symbol, like a square root sign, that was a
sigma with a long arm sticking out of it, and I put the f underneath. For
the tangent it was a tau with the top of the tau extended, and for the
cosine I made a kind of gamma, but it looked a little bit like the square
root sign.
Now the inverse sine was the same sigma, but left-to-right reflected so
that it started with the horizontal line with the value underneath, and then
the sigma. That was the inverse sine, NOT sin^-1 f -- that was crazy! They
had that in books! To me, sin^-1 meant 1/sine, the reciprocal. So my symbols
were better.
I didn't like f(x) -- that looked to me like f times x. I also didn't
like dy/dx -- you have a tendency to cancel the d's -- so I made a different
sign, something like an & sign. For logarithms it was a big L extended to
the right, with the thing you take the log of inside, and so on.
I thought my symbols were just as good, if not better, than the regular
symbols -- it doesn't make any difference what symbols you use -- but I
discovered later that it does make a difference. Once when I was explaining
something to another kid in high school, without thinking I started to make
these symbols, and he said, "What the hell are those?" I realized then that
if I'm going to talk to anybody else, I'll have to use the standard symbols,
so I eventually gave up my own symbols.
I had also invented a set of symbols for the typewriter, like fortran
has to do, so I could type equations. I also fixed typewriters, with paper
clips and rubber bands (the rubber bands didn't break down like they do here
in Los Angeles), but I wasn't a professional repairman; I'd just fix them so
they would work. But the whole problem of discovering what was the matter,
and figuring out what you have to do to fix it -- that was interesting to
me, like a puzzle.
--------
String Beans
I must have been seventeen or eighteen when I worked one summer in a
hotel run by my aunt. I don't know how much I got -- twenty-two dollars a
month, I think -- and I alternated eleven hours one day and thirteen the
next as a desk clerk or as a busboy in the restaurant. And during the
afternoon, when you were desk clerk, you had to bring milk up to Mrs. D--,
an invalid woman who never gave us a tip. That's the way the world was: You
worked long hours and got nothing for it, every day.
This was a resort hotel, by the beach, on the outskirts of New York
City. The husbands would go to work in the city and leave the wives behind
to play cards, so you would always have to get the bridge tables out. Then
at night the guys would play poker, so you'd get the tables ready for them
-- clean out the ashtrays and so on. I was always up until late at night,
like two o'clock, so it really was thirteen and eleven hours a day.
There were certain things I didn't like, such as tipping. I thought we
should be paid more, and not have to have any tips. But when I proposed that
to the boss, I got nothing but laughter. She told everybody, "Richard
doesn't want his tips, hee, hee, hee; he doesn't want his tips, ha, ha, ha."
The world is full of this kind of dumb smart-alec who doesn't understand
anything.
Anyway, at one stage there was a group of men who, when they'd come
back from working in the city, would right away want ice for their drinks.
Now the other guy working with me had really been a desk clerk. He was older
than I was, and a lot more professional. One time he said to me, "Listen,
we're always bringing ice up to that guy Ungar and he never gives us a tip
-- not even ten cents. Next time, when they ask for ice, just don't do a
damn thing. Then they'll call you back, and when they call you back, you
say, 'Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot. We're all forgetful sometimes.'"
So I did it, and Ungar gave me fifteen cents! But now, when I think
back on it, I realize that the other desk clerk, the professional, had
really known what to do -- tell the other guy to take the risk of getting
into trouble. He put me to the job of training this fella to give tips. He
never said anything; he made me do it!
I had to clean up tables in the dining room as a busboy. You pile all
this stuff from the tables on to a tray at the side, and when it gets high
enough you carry it into the kitchen. So you get a new tray, right? You
should do it in two steps -- take the old tray away, and put in a new one --
but I thought, "I'm going to do it in one step." So I tried to slide the new
tray under, and pull the old tray out at the same time, and it slipped --
BANG! All the stuff went on the floor. And then, naturally, the question
was, "What were you doing? How did it fall?" Well, how could I explain that
I was trying to invent a new way to handle trays?
Among the desserts there was some kind of coffee cake that came out
very pretty on a doily, on a little plate. But if you would go in the back
you'd see a man called the pantry man. His problem was to get the stuff
ready for desserts. Now this man must have been a miner, or something --
heavy-built, with very stubby, rounded, thick fingers. He'd take this stack
of doilies, which are manufactured by some sort of stamping process, all
stuck together, and he'd take these stubby fingers and try to separate the
doilies to put them on the plates. I always heard him say, "Damn deez
doilies!" while he was doing this, and I remember thinking, "What a contrast
-- the person sitting at the table gets this nice cake on a doilied plate,
while the pantry man back there with the stubby thumbs is saying, 'Damn deez
doilies!'" So that was the difference between the real world and what it
looked like.
My first day on the job the pantry lady explained that she usually made
a ham sandwich, or something, for the guy who was on the late shift. I said
that I liked desserts, so if there was a dessert left over from supper, I'd
like that. The next night I was on the late shift till 2:00 a.m. with these
guys playing poker. I was sitting around with nothing to do, getting bored,
when suddenly I remembered there was a dessert to eat. I went over to the
icebox and opened it up, and there she'd left six desserts! There was a
chocolate pudding, a piece of cake, some peach slices, some rice pudding,
some jello -- there was everything! So I sat there and ate the six desserts
-- it was sensational!
The next day she said to me, "I left a dessert for you..."
"It was wonderful," I said, "abolutely wonderful!"
"But I left you six desserts because I didn't know which one you liked
the best."
So from that time on she left six desserts. They weren't always
different, but there were always six desserts.
One time when I was desk clerk a girl left a book by the telephone at
the desk while she went to eat dinner, so I looked at. it. It was The Life
of Leonardo, and I couldn't resist: The girl let me borrow it and I read the
whole thing.
I slept in a little room in the back of the hotel, and there was some
stew about turning out the lights when you leave your room, which I couldn't
ever remember to do. Inspired by the Leonardo book, I made this gadget which
consisted of a system of strings and weights -- Coke bottles full of water
-- that would operate when I'd open the door, lighting the pull-chain light
inside. You open the door, and things would go, and light the light; then
you close the door behind you, and the light would go out. But my real
accomplishment came later.
I used to cut vegetables in the kitchen. String beans had to be cut
into one-inch pieces. The way you were supposed to do it was: You hold two
beans in one hand, the knife in the other, and you press the knife against
the beans and your thumb, almost cutting yourself. It was a slow process. So
I put my mind to it, and I got a pretty good idea. I sat down at the wooden
table outside the kitchen, put a bowl in my lap, and stuck a very sharp
knife into the table at a forty-five-degree angle away from me. Then I put a
pile of the string beans on each side, and I'd pick out a bean, one in each
hand, and bring it towards me with enough speed that it would slice, and the
pieces would slide into the bowl that was in my lap.
So I'm slicing beans one after the other -- chig, chig, chig, chig,
chig -- and everybody's giving me the beans, and I'm going like sixty when
the boss comes by and says, "What are you doing?"
I say, "Look at the way I have of cutting beans!" -- and just at that
moment I put a finger through instead of a bean. Blood came out and went on
the beans, and there was a big excitement: "Look at how many beans you
spoiled! What a stupid way to do things!" and so on. So I was never able to
make any improvement, which would have been easy -- with a guard, or
something -- but no, there was no chance for improvement.
I had another invention, which had a similar difficulty. We had to
slice potatoes after they'd been cooked, for some kind of potato salad. They
were sticky and wet, and difficult to handle. I thought of a whole lot of
knives, parallel in a rack, coming down and slicing the whole thing. I
thought about this a long time, and finally I got the idea of wires in a
rack.
So I went to the five-and-ten to buy some knives or wires, and saw
exactly the gadget I wanted: it was for slicing eggs. The next time the
potatoes came out I got my little egg-slicer out and sliced all the potatoes
in no time, and sent them back to the chef. The chef was a German, a great
big guy who was King of the Kitchen, and he came storming out, blood vessels
sticking out of his neck, livid red. "What's the matter with the potatoes?"
he says. "They're not sliced!"
I had them sliced, but they were all stuck together. He says, "How can
I separate them?"
"Stick 'em in water," I suggest.
"IN WATER? EAGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"
Another time I had a really good idea. When I was desk clerk I had to
answer the telephone. When a call came in, something buzzed, and a flap came
down on the switchboard so you could tell which line it was. Sometimes, when
I was helping the women with the bridge tables or sitting on the front porch
in the middle of the afternoon (when there were very few calls), I'd be some
distance from the switchboard when suddenly it would go. I'd come running to
catch it, but the way the desk was made, in order to get to the switchboard
you had to go quite a distance further down, then around, in behind, and
then back up to see where the call was coming from -- it took extra time.
So I got a good idea. I tied threads to the flaps on the switchboard,
and strung them over the top of the desk and then down, and at the end of
each thread I tied a little piece of paper. Then I put the telephone talking
piece up on top of the desk, so I could reach it from the front. Now, when a
call came, I could tell which flap was down by which piece of paper was up,
so I could answer the phone appropriately, from the front, to save time. Of
course I still had to go around back to switch it in, but at least I was
answering it. I'd say, "Just a moment," and then go around to switch it in.
I thought that was perfect, but the boss came by one day, and she
wanted to answer the phone, and she couldn't figure it out -- too
complicated. "What are all these papers doing? Why is the telephone on this
side? Why don't you... raaaaaaaa!"
I tried to explain -- it was my own aunt -- that there was no reason
not to do that, but you can't say that to anybody who's smart, who runs a
hotel! I learned there that innovation is a very difficult thing in the real
world.
--------
Who Stole the Door?
At MIT the different fraternities all had "smokers" where they tried to
get the new freshmen to be their pledges, and the summer before I went to
MIT I was invited to a meeting in New York of Phi Beta Delta, a Jewish
fraternity. In those days, if you were Jewish or brought up in a Jewish
family, you didn't have a chance in any other fraternity. Nobody else would
look at you. I wasn't particularly looking to be with other Jews, and the
guys from the Phi Beta Delta fraternity didn't care how Jewish I was -- in
fact, I didn't believe anything about that stuff, and was certainly not in
any way religious. Anyway, some guys from the fraternity asked me some
questions and gave me a little bit of advice -- that I ought to take the
first-year calculus exam so I wouldn't have to take the course -- which
turned out to be good advice. I liked the fellas who came down to New York
from the fraternity, and the two guys who talked me into it, I later became
their roommate.
There was another Jewish fraternity at MIT, called "SAM," and their
idea was to give me a ride up to Boston and I could stay with them. I
accepted the ride, and stayed upstairs in one of the rooms that first night.
The next morning I looked out the window and saw the two guys from the
other fraternity (that I met in New York) walking up the steps. Some guys
from the Sigma Alpha Mu ran out to talk to them and there was a big
discussion.
I yelled out the window, "Hey, I'm supposed to be with those guys!" and
I rushed out of the fraternity without realizing that they were all
operating, competing for my pledge. I didn't have any feelings of gratitude
for the ride, or anything.
The Phi Beta Delta fraternity had almost collapsed the year before,
because there were two different cliques that had split the fraternity in
half. There was a group of socialite characters, who liked to have dances
and fool around in their cars afterwards, and so on, and there was a group
of guys who did nothing but study, and never went to the dances.
Just before I came to the fraternity they had had a big meeting and had
made an important compromise. They were going to get together and help each
other out. Everyone had to have a grade level of at least such-and-such. If
they