No Stupid Questions - Why Do We Forget So Much of What We’ve Read? (Ep. 24 Rebroadcast)

Episode Date: September 5, 2021

Also: do we overestimate or underestimate our significance in other people’s lives?

Hi, NSQers. Happy Labor Day. We're off for the holiday weekend, and so we're sharing one last rerun of the summer. This episode is one of my personal favorites from the early days of the show. It's packed with great research, hilarious stories, and, of course, the signature Stephen and Angela banter that we've all come to know and love. We'll be back next week with a brand new episode. But for now, enjoy these conversations from the NSQ Archive.

We want to be praised. We want to be praiseworthy. I want to get a candle. I'm Angela Duckworth. I'm Stephen Dubner. And you're listening to No Stupid Questions. Today on the show, why do we forget some of our favorite books? We don't always remember what we remember. Also, do we overestimate our significance in other people's lives? This is so forward. He's just arrived and he wants to come join our group.

Stephen, I've been thinking about a conversation that we had about A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Do you recall this conversation? I do recall that conversation. You said you loved that book, loved, loved, loved it, but you couldn't remember a single thing about it. Yeah, so I thought you might have even forgotten the conversation about how I had forgotten. But anyway, my point is that it's a really interesting thing that people can read books that they absolutely love so much that they're like evangelical. They're trying to get everyone to read this book. And then when you ask that person, oh, well, what's it about?

There's this long pause because, like me, they have no idea at all who the protagonists were, the plot. Was it a tragedy? They just have this residue of emotion that says, I loved the experience of this book. And it makes me think of that. Actually, I don't think it's actually a Maya Angelou quote. People may forget what you said, but they'll never forget how you made them feel. I don't think Maya Angelou said that. But I do think it's an interesting question whether we may forget what is in a book, but we don't forget how it made us feel. What do you think?

that I even really like. I remember the physical object, the edition, the cover says, I usually remember where I bought it or who gave it to me, which to me is really lovely and important information. What I don't remember, she writes, is everything else. So what's in the book? So I don't think that this is uncommon. Do you have those kind of connections to books? I do sometimes remember the cover or even whether I took out, you know, that like outside papery part, it gets in the way. So I often remember, did I take the cover off of this one or did I not? I find that my memory does hang on to some things, which honestly I find to be not that useful. Mostly I remember, though, how I felt. I remember whether I liked it or whether I didn't like it. Maybe that's what I want to remember. Like when I'm reading it, I want to know whether I'm going to want to look fondly back at this

or recommend it to Stephen. It could just be functional. I will say I share your lack of remembering a lot of what I read. And I'm also a fairly slow reader. So it's a very time-consuming activity that yields very, very little solid return. But I will say there are a number of books in my possession, maybe not more than a dozen or so, that I treasure as much as any physical objects that I have because they are books that I bought in a certain place or in a certain state of mind or that I associate with a certain period of my life. And that is an association that is so much stronger for me than remembering the salient

set of facts. So, like, there's a biography of Ring Lardner, a writer that I loved. It was a biography by Jonathan Yardley. And I can picture the cover. I can picture the feel. I can picture the smell of the book. I can picture the table I bought it on. It was at a remainder table outside of a Barnes and Noble on 73rd or 4th and Broadway. And I remember the shape of the building. And the reason I remember that book so well is because it was a biography of a writer that for me set a path forward for, oh, this is how you can have a life as a writer. And even though I didn't want Ring Lardner's life because he was an alcoholic and did all kinds of destructive things, the set of experiences around the buying and reading the book

were so, so strong, even though if you ask me now to name 10 really significant things about Ring Lardner, I can maybe come up with four. And I don't care. I'm happy with that. So you read a lot. You read before bed every night. I do. And I assume you read sometimes for information, but sometimes for pleasure. So if you're reading for pleasure, I don't think the intent is to remember the plot, the characters and so on, because you're in the moment. When you're reading, let's say that you're collaborating on a paper with some other researchers, I am sure you focus in a way that you remember incredibly well because you're processing it totally differently. And then on the other hand, like for me, my wife often accuses me of skimming at best

certain written materials. Like the school that our daughter went to, the high school that she went to, they sent about 8,000 emails a week, just on and on. And they were long. 8,000 long emails. And I would try to read them

because I am the parent of a child in a school that I theoretically cared about. I would spend like 20 minutes reading an email. I was like, there's nothing there. What a waste of time. So inevitably, like the boy who cried wolf, I just stopped reading the emails. And then once in a while, my wife, who still read all of them, would say, oh, you need to read this one. And I'd say, okay, I'll read it. And then I would say, yeah, I read it. And she said, did you read it or did you skim

it? And I would say, yeah, I skimmed it. If I read it, I would absorb it. So I think it has a lot to do with intent and intention. And therefore, I think for you to beat yourself up for not remembering the plot or characters of a book, even that you loved, what it means is you had no real investment in that regard. And that's fine. no real investment in that regard. And that's fine. That's not what I was trying to remember, in other words, right? So when you're reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn or even a memoir, I mean, memoirs are my favorite genre. I feel like memoirs are like pizza. Sometimes it's good, sometimes it's great, and it's never bad. I love reading people's stories in their own words. And maybe right before I go to sleep after a long day and I've decided to read somebody's life story, it's not my objective to remember what happened when they were 16 and then what happened when they were 18. Specifically, I am remembering it for the emotional experience. Actually, in my department of psychology at University of Pennsylvania, there is a world-class memory researcher.

Do you remember this person's name? Mike Kahana. Okay. Look at that. How impressive was that? Congratulations. So I told him that I forget a lot of plots and so forth. And he was like, I don't know that you really do forget the plots. And he gave me the example, like, if he read me, you know, the opening line of a book, would that trigger? You need a cue. You need a cue. Like, I wouldn't be able to tell you the password to my computer. But if I sat down.

Come on, it's just you and me. Tell me the password. That's right. Or my social security number. But anyway, if I sat down on my computer and I lay my fingers on the keyboard, boom, I got it. Right. So I think he's right that we don't always remember what we remember. And I might be selling myself short and saying that I don't remember anything about the plot.

There's a related element that comes to mind. So when I was writing my first book, which was a family memoir. Pizza. I was doing kind of two things at once. I was reporting out the story of my parents when they were younger. And it was partially a memoir with me in it as a kid and so on. So there was literally the reconstruction of history and the reconstruction of memory. And one of the memoirs I read along the way as kind of

inspiration or a guidepost was a book by William Helmreich. And I'm afraid I don't remember the name of the book, but the quote I remember was something along the lines of, with knowledge comes memory, for knowledge and memory are one and the same. And the point was that the more that I learned about my parents' history, and the more that I spoke with other people in my family about our own family history, the more I remembered. Because the knowledge triggers or activates dormant memories. And memory does need to be reinforced. I mean, are you familiar with the forgetting curve? Yes, vaguely from my intro psych days. Oh, wait a second. I forgot. I didn't take intro psych. What do you mean? Is that true?

Yeah, I wasn't a psych major, which is a little bit of an error. Were you pre-med or something? I was in neurobiology because in my family, there's a hierarchy of awesomeness. And I'll just say that psychology is not at the top of the hierarchy. Well, now it is. Damn it. But anyway, the forgetting curve. Yeah. Remind me, Stephen. Well, it was Hermann Ebbinghaus, a German psychologist, late 19th century. And he did experiments with how memory works. And I think he started with himself, like many scientists do, and he would memorize these short sequences of letters or syllables, meaningless. And he would test himself periodically to see. And basically, the drop off is huge. You forget a lot immediately. Then the good news is it kind of levels out really fast. So you haven't forgotten

much more after one month than you did after one day. And the even better news is that as soon as you feed the inputs back in, you remember again pretty well. I mean, it makes perfect sense. And I also think that there's an argument to be made against the desire to remember so much. There are mental illnesses associated with remembering too much. Like rumination, you mean? Talk about that for a minute. Well, rumination, the idea that you could experience something, something not even traumatic, but you made a slight error in a conversation with a collaborator,

and you're just turning it over and over in your head, and you don't even want to, but you keep compulsively doing it. So rumination is one of the hallmarks of depression. And it's something we all do, by the way, to some degree. But that idea that you could remember, quote unquote, too much or too often, that definitely happens. So maybe it's a good thing that we have this sharp fall off as a default. Right. Going back to your issue of not remembering certain things that you kind of think you want to remember, my guiding light on memory and how it works was a quote I read a million years ago. I believe it was by Arthur Conan Doyle, the author of the Sherlock Holmes books. And for all I know, Maya Angelou said this, I have no idea. But the quote was something to the effect that your memory is like an attic. And if you stuff it full of useless junk, when you have something you actually need to remember, you won't have room. So my strategy, whether it's voluntary or not, is essentially to flush as much as possible as soon as possible out of my working memory. So you remember this live game show we used to do, Tell Me Something I Don't Know?

Yes, I dimly recall that. You were on it a few times. We would have four or five guests each night tell us some interesting set of facts. And I would spend the eight or 10 hours before the show preparing, trying to understand what they were going to talk about, come up with interesting avenues of conversation. So it was a very, very intense preparation because it's a live show. And there were these different guests. You had to introduce who they were, where they were from, if they had an academic affiliation, et cetera, et cetera. Then they would talk, and then the audience would interact, the co-host would interact. And then there was a live fact checker. So it was this kind of big, complicated machinery.

We taped for usually two to three hours. When the show was over, we would all laugh and hug and then go to a bar and have some drinks. By the time we got to the drinks, I had no idea what anybody had said about anything. Now, it may have been that we were drinking also. Usually one contestant would win. I had no idea who even won the thing. Oh, really? You even forgot that? Yeah, because it was immaterial to me. Because you didn't need to know.

Yeah. What I needed to know in the moment was really important. And then once it was gone, it was gone. So I'm not saying that's the way to be, but it works for me. So one of the things about memory that I do remember, there are these memory competitions where people try to remember, you know, as many digits of pi, which is a non-repeating decimal, and they go really far, like hundreds of digits. So the way that anybody remembers anything in these competitions is to create meaning out of them. So famously, one of the first studies on this was done by Anders Eriksson, our good friend who studied expertise. And he found that you could train more or less a random person off the street.

He recruited an undergraduate to see how far he could stretch the limits of short-term memory. In other words, you see a number and then you turn the page over. Okay, how many digits can you remember? And this undergraduate happened to be a track athlete. A distance runner, yeah. So this runner would make meaning out of certain stretches of the digits and thereby actually kind of in a way cheat because it was a short-term working memory task. But what the runner was doing is accessing running times, you know, his times, famous times,

and other meaningful sequences of digits. So he was using long-term memory to hack this short-term memory task. And all of this comes back to meaning. So what that book meant to you, I remember that I was a young girl when I read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I felt some communality with the protagonist. I remember like, I'm a girl, she's a girl, she's confused, I'm confused. I remember that it made me feel not alone. And then about two years ago, my own daughter, Amanda, just found A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, the same book that I had read, green cover, by the way, cloth, hardback, and it was on a shelf somewhere. And then she read it. And so

I think what I'll remember about A Tree Grows in Brooklyn is not any of the details of the plot, but I remember how it made me feel. And I remember how I felt when I learned that Amanda had taken that book off the shelf. That's a nice set of memories to have much better than remembering plot points, I would argue. You know, when you brought up Anders Ericsson's original research with training someone to memorize random numbers, it does make me think about just now living in a digital era where we all have access to so much information all the time. need for certain kinds of memory in the world today. And I think that is actually a bigger and interesting topic that we should talk about another day, if of course we can. If we can remember. I'll remind you. Stephen, you've written a book, you've written more than one book. How much do you think people remember and how much do you care?

You know, I think I used to care a lot more. It's like the chef who spends eight hours on a meal and then it's eaten in 15 minutes and people are like, yeah, that was good. And it's like, what do you mean that was good? That was eight hours. And that eight hours was preceded by 10 years of learning and thinking and so on. But you know what? I get in a car and drive. I don't think about the hard work of the people who learned how to build an engine, right? That's the way it is. The people who produce aren't the same as the people who consume. So, I think I used to care a little bit more. The thing that tickles me is how often people remember exactly wrong. I just know this because, you know, Twitter is alive and well, and people say,

I read in Freakonomics that whatever name your parents give you is going to hugely affect your outcome in life. And I was like, well, actually, we wrote that it was the exact opposite of what you are suggesting. But that has to do with people's own biases and how we absorb facts to fit our existing theories and so on. So it's a nice idea, I guess, as a writer, it's a nice idea, I guess, as a writer that people would pay enough attention to remember correctly what I've written. But yeah, I figure it's my job to write, theirs is to read and then to forget. Still to come on No Stupid Questions, Stephen and Angela discuss how your words can affect someone's day. How many of us will shout down the sidewalk like, hey, love the shirt?

Angela, here's a question from a listener via Twitter. We are at NSQ underscore show, by the way. And this is from Nate in Houston. Nate asks, do we as humans overestimate or underestimate our significance in other people's lives? Has there been any psychology research done on this topic? So, Angela, I'm guessing as with many questions, the answer is it depends, right? There are some instances where we underestimate our significance and others where we overestimate. But I love this question and I want to hear what you have to say.

Yeah, I think this question is terrific because it's not just there are two sides of the coin. It's just that there are certain circumstances that we overestimate our influence on other people. And then somewhere we do the opposite. We underestimate. We've talked actually, Stephen, about the spotlight effect, right? Tom Gilovich. Everybody's paying attention to what I'm doing. Yes. And what I'm wearing and my hairstyle. Now with you, we actually do pay attention to

all those things. But with most people, we don't. If I had to choose, I just think we so often overestimate. We get self-conscious and we get insecure. Yes. Nick Epley, who's a social psychologist at the University of Chicago, he did an experiment once where he would have research subjects go into a room wearing a big oversized t-shirt that had Barry Manilow's face on it. And this was apparently among a cohort that really didn't like Barry Manilow. And the point he was trying to prove was that people care a lot less about what you're wearing or thinking about what you're wearing than you actually do. Oh, good. I was hoping that that didn't have some like terrible ending. And they were killed. Exactly right. Yeah.

I hate to beat up on Barry Manilow because no one deserves to be beat up on like this. Also, there's nothing to beat up. He's great. Yeah, exactly. If you think he's great. Exactly. If you think he's great. But I do know that in Australia, years ago, there was some park that a bunch of kind of noisy teenagers would come into and make trouble and noise all night long, like skateboarding and drinking and blah, blah, blah, playing loud music, whatever. And the way the authorities, I think, finally drove them away was by playing very loud Barry Manilow over the loudspeakers. Sorry, we digress. But I do think there are circumstances where we underestimate our significance to other people. Can you give an example? So in my department, there is a psychologist named Erica Boothby, and she's been studying how we actually often get it wrong.

For example, compliments. So we all give and get compliments, and we all have some intuition that when we compliment someone, they feel better, and we know that we have felt good when other people compliment us. But in a series of studies, what Erica Boothby finds is that we underestimate the effect of compliments. So, yeah, we think they're good, but wow, they're really good.

And so we may not compliment people as much as we ought to. And I do think there are people who somehow, some way, have learned to give compliments more liberally. But I think many of us do kind of refrain. Like, you walk by somebody and you think, well, that's a nice shirt. How many of us will shout down the sidewalk like, hey, love the shirt? Yeah, none. I think the answer is zero.

No, no, one. I do that. To strangers? Yes. I'll just say like, oh, my God, I love that dress. You do do that a lot. I do. You are an aggressive complimenter.

I am. Now, there's got to be a downside to that, though. Don't people doubt your sincerity if you compliment them all the time? Well, first of all, I only do it when I really like the shirt or the dress. It needs to be sincere. So if I say to you, Angela, wow, you look really great today. Oh, by the way, sarcastic compliments, Stephen. Don't worry.

Let me write that down. So Dale Carnegie, Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. We've talked about this self-help book. Wait, Dale Carnegie was Seven Habits of Highly Successful People? Oh, wait, wait, wait. How to Get People. How to Win Friends and Influence People. Can't remember the title of the book, but I remember how it made me feel.

Sorry. But do you remember the chapter or the recommendation? I'm saying people's names all the time, Angela. Angela. By the way, that is what everybody remembers from that book. But there are all these other things in the recommendation. I'm saying people's names all the time, Angela. Angela. By the way, that is what everybody remembers from that book. But there are all these other things in the book. And one of them was to be liberal with your compliments, to be liberal with your praise.

Okay, two questions for you. Number one, who's your favorite Carnegie, Andrew or Dale? I think Dale, because wasn't Andrew Carnegie kind of like mean? Kind of, some people would say. And number two, when you talk about the research that your colleague Erica Boothby, was it? Yeah. Has done to look at how compliments affect other people more than the complimenter might think. I'm curious whether she or anyone else has done research comparing compliments, in other words,

verbal niceties, verbal gifts to, let's say, physical gifts. So if I compliment someone and say, you know, I really think you're a wonderful, brilliant human, does that matter as much as if I just buy them a nice present and don't say anything? I think when you give somebody a candle, that's not the same thing as praise. Well, I don't know. I guess it depends what the point of the compliment is. Like if I'm trying to compliment someone to make them feel good about themselves or to make them happy for the day or to repay them a kindness even, right? Let's say someone does something nice for me and I say, you know, it is such a mark of what a good person you are and a kind person you are that you went out of your way to do this. So that would be one way of repaying the kindness. Or I could buy him a candle. I've never actually

bought anyone a candle. Please don't. People give candles way too much. And candles burn things down, by the way. History is rife with examples. I did have to ban a certain teenage female in our family from owning candles with real flames. Yeah. Teenagers, especially girls, really love those candles. And I think the key, though, is that with the candle would have to be a card that says like, Here's a candle. Hey, I really like your shirt. But then I think, wait a minute, what does this candle have to do with my shirt? And you're giving me a compliment and a gift. Aren't they substitutes? I guess that's what

I'm getting to. Aren't they substitutes to some degree? No, because when Adam Smith said that we all want to be praised and we all want to be praiseworthy, I think it was in a theory of moral sentiments. He wasn't saying we want to be praised, we want to be praiseworthy, I want to get a candle. I think he was saying we want to have the esteem of other people. And even though giving somebody a gift is an indirect way of saying that you think highly of them, I really don't think they're the same thing. Okay, let's leave candles behind for a moment

and get back to this essential question that Nate wants to know about underestimating versus overestimating our significance in other people's lives. So let me ask you about a particular scenario. In a work situation, let's say you're the authority figure and you may be grumpy one day or say something to someone

that's perceived as very, very critical. And you may not be aware of how influential you are. Who should say what to you? How should they make you aware of that in a way that's not confrontational? And in this hypothetical, I'm the supervisor. Sure, let's have you be the mean person, yeah? The mean supervisor.

Who's usually not mean, but you know. Bad day. But what's really at the root here is you have failed to properly estimate how significant you are in these other people's lives. How can that be remediated? Adam Galinsky, he's a great psychologist, and he wrote an essay once about how he gave negative or critical feedback to a junior person. He said something that was partly influenced by his mood, but he thought nothing of it.

And it turns out that it did have an outsized impact on this more junior person. that it did have an outsized impact on this more junior person. And then he calibrated after that to realize that especially when you're in a position of power, you can actually underestimate your effect on other people, especially when you're giving critical or negative vibes of any kind. So in terms of fixing that problem, I think that if we can give everyone the benefit of the doubt here, and when your boss says something that really offends you or hurts your feelings, if you could tell them in a way that starts off with the assumption that your boss didn't mean to do lasting harm. But you have to begin with, I know you want the best for everyone, but that's my recommendation. Let's say that I am some kind of boss person or authority figure. And let's say that I want them to estimate me less. I want them to act more creatively, more proactively on their own. But I think that they're worried about my outsized influence. What's a person like that to do to signal that, you know what, I'm not what's driving

your ship necessarily? I think in all these cases where we are getting it wrong, either overestimating or underestimating what other people think and our influence, I think the answer is pretty simple, which is give a candle. Exactly. No, the answer is pretty simple, which is give a candle. Exactly. No, the answer is to ask directly. And I know that itself makes people break out in hives of self-consciousness. It does for me, but I like where you're going. So talk more about that. How do you do that? Well, once you are aware of this basic insight from social psychology that we can

overestimate or underestimate how much people like us, how much they care about what we just said or the shirt we just wore. I think the more direct thing is maybe asking the people I work with, what do you think? At least you could calibrate, right? The whole take home of this research is that because we don't know whether we're under or over, we do need to ask because in the moment, it's not going to hit us over the head. What about if someone feels that they are not very significant in the eyes of some other person or group and they don't want to feel that way? They either want to change their perception or they want to change their reality. Are you suggesting they go to this group and say,

hey, you know, I feel that you guys don't like me. Well, I wasn't going to go quite that direct. I was going to say, I feel that my presence in this group is marginal. I remember this incident from fifth grade where a new kid had moved to our little rural town and our school was very small. So like a new kid was a pretty big deal. And we were at recess when I met him and he was a good athlete and he wasn't cocky, but he was not shy. And I remember at that very first day, he walked up and said, I think it was directly to me. A bunch of us used to go camping on the weekends. Cause you know, we were in the country. That's what we did. He said, I hear you guys directly to me. A bunch of us used to go camping on the weekends because, you know, we're in the country. That's what we did. He said, I hear you guys are going camping.

You mind if I join? And I was like, oh my God, this is so forward. He just arrived and he wants to come join our group. How presumptuous. I was incredibly impressed. And it was a very likable trait because he just said, I want to be part of this group. And I feel that that is the kind of direct communication that Angela Duckworth would endorse, but that very few people are actually able to muster. So is that what you're suggesting that more of us do all the time? Well, first I want to know, did he come and how did it go? Did he make s'mores? We were not a s'more making group. We were young boys who were more likely to burn and blow things up. Destroy property. I remember that one trip was just out in the backwoods behind one of our houses,

but we christened that campsite later Mustard Pine because somehow we got in a mustard fight and slung mustard all over all the pine trees. So no, no s'mores. But he did become a key part of our circle and was incredibly good guy. And so as it turns out, his forwardness was an indicator of his personality. So that was a high status kid from go and a high status kid directly saying, I would like to be friends with you is one scenario, a low status kid looking at you and saying, I want to be friends with you. That can go wrong. You know, just envision the scenario that the least popular kid tugs on the shirt sleeve of the really popular kid is like, it doesn't seem like you like me very much. Do I have that right? That's not good. kid or maybe more appropriately, since you and I and most people who listen to this are adults, what about the low status adult? Again, someone in a work environment or social environment. Is there a way to inject yourself or to become a bigger part of the group without taking too

big a risk? Because everybody's worried about saving face. You don't want to be rejected. I think this is often why people benefit from therapy. Therapists, it's like their job to like you. And if you go to your therapist and directly say, I feel like nobody likes me. I feel like nobody wants to have a conversation with me there. I think you can trust them. So you're still being direct. But then aren't I going to think, well, wait, my therapist doesn't ever met who had this desire to go to graduate school for six years so that they could sit and talk to people about their problems, just at baseline, they care so much about other people. It's not only that they're paid to do it, it's that they want to do it, even if nobody paid them. This message has been brought to you by the American Psychotherapy Association. No Stupid Questions is part of the Freakonomics Radio Network, which also includes Freakonomics Radio, People I Mostly Admire, and Freakonomics MD.

This episode was produced by me, Rebecca Lee Douglas. And now here's a fact check of today's conversations. During the discussion about books, Angela says that while she often forgets plot and character names, she does remember whether or not she removed the quote, outside papery part. Angela likely meant the dust jacket, also known as a book jacket or a dust cover. Book jackets have been around since at least 1830. Unlike today's jackets, book jackets from the early 19th century encased the book entirely, as if you were mailing a parcel. Books from this era were often bound in silk, and jackets would keep them safe from wear and tear until they were placed safely on the shelf

at home. Towards the end of the century, publishers began to add words and graphics to catch the attention of potential buyers. And the modern dust jacket was born, thus paving the way for books that people like Stephen and Angela would remember for their design and color and less for their literary details. Finally, Stephen is uncertain about two literary references. During the conversation about memory, he attributes the following quote to sociologist William Helmrich, With knowledge comes memory, for knowledge and memory are one and the same. Stephen thought that the quote came from Helmrich's 1976 book, Wake Up, Wake Up, to do the work of the creator. But he was actually thinking about Israeli historian Saul

Friedlander's 1979 Holocaust memoir, When Memory Comes. And to add another layer of complexity, Friedlander was actually referencing a book from his childhood, the Austrian novelist Gustav Meyrinx retelling of the Jewish legend of Golem, an animated creature made out of clay. The actual passage reads like this, when knowledge comes, memory comes too, little by little. Knowledge and memory are one and the same thing. Stephen also references what he thinks is an Arthur Conan Doyle quote comparing memory with attic space. In this case, Stephen was correct. The passage is from the author's 1887 detective novel, A Study in Scarlet. He writes, extent. Depend upon it. There comes a time when, for every addition of knowledge, you forget something that you knew before. It is of the highest importance, therefore, not to have useless

facts elbowing out the useful ones. That's it for the Fact Check. No Stupid Questions is produced by Freakonomics Radio and Stitcher. Our staff includes Allison Craiglow, Greg Rippin, Eleanor Osborne, Joel Meyer, Trisha Boveda, Emma Terrell, Lyric Bowditch, Jasmine Klinger, and Jacob Clemente. Our theme song is And She Was by Talking Heads. Special thanks to David Byrne and Warner Chapel Music. If you'd like to listen to the show ad-free, subscribe to Stitcher Premium. You can also follow us on Twitter at NSQ underscore show and on Facebook at NSQ show. If you have a question for a future episode, please email it to NSQ at Freakonomics.com. And if you heard Steven or Angela reference a study, an expert, or a book that you'd like to learn more about, you can check out Freakonomics.com slash NSQ,

where we link to all of the major references that you heard about here today. Thanks for listening. My mom had this needlepoint business, and all these women who worked there would just blast Barry Manilow all day. That's all they played. They are known as fanalos. all day. That's all they played.

They are known as fanalos.