There were ten people in the party, and they were about to descend into the Grand Canyon. The guide wore a cowboy hat and leather chaps; a coil of rope hung from his saddle. Most of the others were dressed for a day outdoors, wearing hats, loose-fitting shirts, and the like. At the rear of the group was John Von Neumann—hatless and in the formal suit and tie of a banker. Moreover, while everyone else sat on a mule facing right, his faced left.

Von Neumann had been following his own rules for years. He owned a photographic memory that held the complete texts of works of literature and one of the world’s largest collections of off-color limericks. Yet he would phone home to ask his wife to help him remember an appointment. He loved to throw parties—and sometimes would steal away to work in his office while his guests remained downstairs. Among his friends he was nearly as well known for his traffic accidents as for his accomplishments in mathematics. A strong supporter of the military, he was fond of attending nuclear-weapons tests. He died of cancer at the age of fifty-three.

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