Feats of memory anyone can do

There are people who can quickly memorize lists of thousands of numbers, the order of all the cards in a deck (or ten!), and much more. Science writer Joshua Foer describes the technique -- called the memory palace -- and shows off its most remarkable feature: anyone can learn how to use it, including him.

I'd like to invite you to close your eyes.

Imagine yourself standing
outside the front door of your home.

I'd like you to notice
the color of the door,

the material that it's made out of.

Now visualize a pack
of overweight nudists on bicycles.

(Laughter)

They are competing
in a naked bicycle race,

and they are headed straight
for your front door.

I need you to actually see this.

They are pedaling
really hard, they're sweaty,

they're bouncing around a lot.

And they crash straight
into the front door of your home.

Bicycles fly everywhere,
wheels roll past you,

spokes end up in awkward places.

Step over the threshold of your door
into your foyer, your hallway,

whatever's on the other side,

and appreciate the quality of the light.

The light is shining
down on Cookie Monster.

Cookie Monster is waving at you
from his perch on top of a tan horse.

It's a talking horse.

You can practically feel
his blue fur tickling your nose.

You can smell the oatmeal raisin cookie
that he's about to shovel into his mouth.

Walk past him.

Walk past him into your living room.

In your living room,
in full imaginative broadband,

picture Britney Spears.

She is scantily clad, she's dancing
on your coffee table,

and she's singing
"Hit Me Baby One More Time."

And then, follow me into your kitchen.

In your kitchen, the floor has been
paved over with a yellow brick road,

and out of your oven are coming
towards you Dorothy, the Tin Man,

the Scarecrow and the Lion
from "The Wizard of Oz,"

hand-in-hand, skipping
straight towards you.

Okay. Open your eyes.

I want to tell you
about a very bizarre contest

that is held every spring
in New York City.

It's called the United States
Memory Championship.

And I had gone to cover
this contest a few years back

as a science journalist,

expecting, I guess, that this was going
to be like the Superbowl of savants.

This was a bunch of guys and a few ladies,

widely varying in both age
and hygienic upkeep.

(Laughter)

They were memorizing
hundreds of random numbers,

looking at them just once.

They were memorizing the names of dozens
and dozens and dozens of strangers.

They were memorizing
entire poems in just a few minutes.

They were competing
to see who could memorize

the order of a shuffled pack
of playing cards the fastest.

I was like, this is unbelievable.

These people must be freaks of nature.

And I started talking
to a few of the competitors.

This is a guy called Ed Cook,
who had come over from England,

where he had one
of the best-trained memories.

And I said to him,
"Ed, when did you realize

that you were a savant?"

And Ed was like, "I'm not a savant.

In fact, I have just an average memory.

Everybody who competes
in this contest will tell you

that they have just an average memory.

We've all trained ourselves to perform
these utterly miraculous feats of memory

using a set of ancient techniques,

techniques invented
2,500 years ago in Greece,

the same techniques that Cicero
had used to memorize his speeches,

that medieval scholars had used
to memorize entire books."

And I said, "Whoa. How come
I never heard of this before?"

And we were standing
outside the competition hall,

and Ed, who is a wonderful, brilliant,
but somewhat eccentric English guy,

says to me, "Josh, you're
an American journalist.

Do you know Britney Spears?"

I'm like, "What? No. Why?"

"Because I really want
to teach Britney Spears

how to memorize the order
of a shuffled pack of playing cards

on U.S. national television.

It will prove to the world
that anybody can do this."

(Laughter)

I was like, "Well, I'm not Britney Spears,

but maybe you could teach me.

I mean, you've got to start
somewhere, right?"

And that was the beginning
of a very strange journey for me.

I ended up spending
the better part of the next year

not only training my memory,

but also investigating it,

trying to understand how it works,

why it sometimes doesn't work,

and what its potential might be.

And I met a host
of really interesting people.

This is a guy called E.P.

He's an amnesic who had, very possibly,

the worst memory in the world.

His memory was so bad,

that he didn't even remember
he had a memory problem,

which is amazing.

And he was this incredibly tragic figure,

but he was a window into the extent
to which our memories make us who we are.

At the other end
of the spectrum, I met this guy.

This is Kim Peek, he was the basis
for Dustin Hoffman's character

in the movie "Rain Man."

We spent an afternoon together
in the Salt Lake City Public Library

memorizing phone books,

which was scintillating.

(Laughter)

And I went back and I read
a whole host of memory treatises,

treatises written 2,000-plus
years ago in Latin,

in antiquity, and then later,
in the Middle Ages.

And I learned a whole bunch
of really interesting stuff.

One of the really interesting
things that I learned

is that once upon a time,

this idea of having a trained,
disciplined, cultivated memory

was not nearly so alien
as it would seem to us to be today.

Once upon a time,
people invested in their memories,

in laboriously furnishing their minds.

Over the last few millenia,

we've invented a series of technologies --

from the alphabet, to the scroll,

to the codex, the printing
press, photography,

the computer, the smartphone --

that have made it progressively
easier and easier

for us to externalize our memories,

for us to essentially outsource
this fundamental human capacity.

These technologies have made
our modern world possible,

but they've also changed us.

They've changed us culturally,

and I would argue that they've
changed us cognitively.

Having little need to remember anymore,

it sometimes seems
like we've forgotten how.

One of the last places on Earth
where you still find

people passionate about this idea of
a trained, disciplined, cultivated memory,

is at this totally singular
memory contest.

It's actually not that singular,

there are contests held
all over the world.

And I was fascinated,
I wanted to know how do these guys do it.

A few years back a group of researchers
at University College London

brought a bunch of memory
champions into the lab.

They wanted to know:

Do these guys have brains
that are somehow structurally,

anatomically different
from the rest of ours?

The answer was no.

Are they smarter than the rest of us?

They gave them a bunch of cognitive tests,
and the answer was: not really.

There was, however, one really
interesting and telling difference

between the brains of the memory champions

and the control subjects
that they were comparing them to.

When they put these guys
in an fMRI machine,

scanned their brains
while they were memorizing numbers

and people's faces
and pictures of snowflakes,

they found that the memory champions were
lighting up different parts of the brain

than everyone else.

Of note, they were using,
or they seemed to be using,

a part of the brain that's involved
in spatial memory and navigation.

Why?

And is there something
that the rest of us can learn from this?

The sport of competitive memorizing
is driven by a kind of arms race where,

every year, somebody comes up with a new
way to remember more stuff more quickly,

and then the rest of the field
has to play catch-up.

This is my friend Ben Pridmore,

three-time world memory champion.

On his desk in front of him
are 36 shuffled packs of playing cards

that he is about to try
to memorize in one hour,

using a technique that he invented
and he alone has mastered.

He used a similar technique

to memorize the precise order
of 4,140 random binary digits

in half an hour.

(Laughter)

Yeah.

And while there are a whole host of ways

of remembering stuff
in these competitions,

everything, all of the techniques
that are being used,

ultimately come down to a concept

that psychologists refer to
as "elaborative encoding."

And it's well-illustrated
by a nifty paradox

known as the Baker/baker paradox,
which goes like this:

If I tell two people
to remember the same word,

if I say to you,

"Remember that
there is a guy named Baker."

That's his name.

And I say to you, "Remember
that there is a guy who is a baker."

Okay?

And I come back to you
at some point later on,

and I say, "Do you remember that word
that I told you a while back?

Do you remember what it was?"

The person who was told his name is Baker

is less likely to remember the same word

than the person was told
his job is a baker.

Same word, different amount
of remembering; that's weird.

What's going on here?

Well, the name Baker
doesn't actually mean anything to you.

It is entirely untethered
from all of the other memories

floating around in your skull.

But the common noun "baker" --
we know bakers.

Bakers wear funny white hats.

Bakers have flour on their hands.

Bakers smell good
when they come home from work.

Maybe we even know a baker.

And when we first hear that word,

we start putting these
associational hooks into it,

that make it easier to fish it
back out at some later date.

The entire art of what is going on
in these memory contests,

and the entire art of remembering
stuff better in everyday life,

is figuring out ways
to transform capital B Bakers

into lower-case B bakers --

to take information
that is lacking in context,

in significance, in meaning,

and transform it in some way,

so that it becomes meaningful
in the light of all the other things

that you have in your mind.

One of the more elaborate
techniques for doing this

dates back 2,500 years to Ancient Greece.

It came to be known as the memory palace.

The story behind its creation
goes like this:

There was a poet called Simonides,
who was attending a banquet.

He was actually the hired entertainment,

because back then, if you wanted
to throw a really slamming party,

you didn't hire a D.J., you hired a poet.

And he stands up, delivers his poem
from memory, walks out the door,

and at the moment he does,

the banquet hall collapses.

Kills everybody inside.

It doesn't just kill everybody,

it mangles the bodies
beyond all recognition.

Nobody can say who was inside,

nobody can say where they were sitting.

The bodies can't be properly buried.

It's one tragedy compounding another.

Simonides, standing outside,

the sole survivor amid the wreckage,

closes his eyes and has this realization,

which is that in his mind's eye,

he can see where each of the guests
at the banquet had been sitting.

And he takes the relatives by the hand,

and guides them each
to their loved ones amid the wreckage.

What Simonides figured out at that moment,

is something that I think
we all kind of intuitively know,

which is that, as bad as we are
at remembering names and phone numbers,

and word-for-word instructions
from our colleagues,

we have really exceptional
visual and spatial memories.

If I asked you to recount
the first 10 words of the story

that I just told you about Simonides,

chances are you would have
a tough time with it.

But, I would wager
that if I asked you to recall

who is sitting on top
of a talking tan horse

in your foyer right now,

you would be able to see that.

The idea behind the memory palace

is to create this imagined edifice
in your mind's eye,

and populate it with images
of the things that you want to remember --

the crazier, weirder, more bizarre,

funnier, raunchier, stinkier the image is,

the more unforgettable it's likely to be.

This is advice that goes
back 2,000-plus years

to the earliest Latin memory treatises.

So how does this work?

Let's say that you've been invited
to TED center stage to give a speech,

and you want to do it from memory,

and you want to do it the way
that Cicero would have done it,

if he had been invited
to TEDxRome 2,000 years ago.

(Laughter)

What you might do

is picture yourself
at the front door of your house.

And you'd come up with some sort
of crazy, ridiculous, unforgettable image,

to remind you that the first thing
you want to talk about

is this totally bizarre contest.

(Laughter)

And then you'd go inside your house,

and you would see an image
of Cookie Monster on top of Mister Ed.

And that would remind you

that you would want to then
introduce your friend Ed Cook.

And then you'd see
an image of Britney Spears

to remind you of this funny
anecdote you want to tell.

And you'd go into your kitchen,

and the fourth topic
you were going to talk about

was this strange journey
that you went on for a year,

and you'd have some friends
to help you remember that.

This is how Roman orators
memorized their speeches --

not word-for-word, which is just
going to screw you up,

but topic-for-topic.

In fact, the phrase "topic sentence" --

that comes from the Greek word "topos,"

which means "place."

That's a vestige of when people used
to think about oratory and rhetoric

in these sorts of spatial terms.

The phrase "in the first place,"

that's like "in the first place
of your memory palace."

I thought this was just fascinating,

and I got really into it.

And I went to a few more
of these memory contests,

and I had this notion
that I might write something longer

about this subculture
of competitive memorizers.

But there was a problem.

The problem was that a memory contest

is a pathologically boring event.

(Laughter)

Truly, it is like a bunch of people
sitting around taking the SATs --

I mean, the most dramatic it gets

is when somebody
starts massaging their temples.

And I'm a journalist,
I need something to write about.

I know that there's incredible stuff
happening in these people's minds,

but I don't have access to it.

And I realized, if I was going
to tell this story,

I needed to walk
in their shoes a little bit.

And so I started trying
to spend 15 or 20 minutes

every morning, before I sat
down with my New York Times,

just trying to remember something.

Maybe it was a poem,

maybe it was names from an old yearbook
that I bought at a flea market.

And I found that this was shockingly fun.

I never would have expected that.

It was fun because this is actually
not about training your memory.

What you're doing, is you're trying
to get better and better

at creating, at dreaming up,

these utterly ludicrous,
raunchy, hilarious,

and hopefully unforgettable
images in your mind's eye.

And I got pretty into it.

This is me wearing my standard
competitive memorizer's training kit.

(Laughter)

It's a pair of earmuffs

and a set of safety goggles
that have been masked over

except for two small pinholes,

because distraction is the competitive
memorizer's greatest enemy.

I ended up coming back
to that same contest

that I had covered a year earlier,

and I had this notion
that I might enter it,

sort of as an experiment
in participatory journalism.

It'd make, I thought, maybe
a nice epilogue to all my research.

Problem was, the experiment went haywire.

I won the contest --

(Laughter)

which really wasn't supposed to happen.

(Applause)

Now, it is nice to be able
to memorize speeches

and phone numbers and shopping lists,

but it's actually kind
of beside the point.

These are just tricks.

They work because they're based
on some pretty basic principles

about how our brains work.

And you don't have to be
building memory palaces

or memorizing packs of playing cards

to benefit from a little bit of insight
about how your mind works.

We often talk about people
with great memories

as though it were some sort
of an innate gift,

but that is not the case.

Great memories are learned.

At the most basic level,
we remember when we pay attention.

We remember when we are deeply engaged.

We remember when we are able to take
a piece of information and experience,

and figure out why it is meaningful to us,

why it is significant, why it's colorful,

when we're able to transform it
in some way that makes sense

in the light of all of the other
things floating around in our minds,

when we're able to transform
Bakers into bakers.

The memory palace,
these memory techniques --

they're just shortcuts.

In fact, they're not
even really shortcuts.

They work because they make you work.

They force a kind of depth of processing,

a kind of mindfulness,

that most of us don't normally
walk around exercising.

But there actually are no shortcuts.

This is how stuff is made memorable.

And I think if there's one thing
that I want to leave you with,

it's what E.P., the amnesic who couldn't
even remember he had a memory problem,

left me with,

which is the notion that our lives
are the sum of our memories.

How much are we willing to lose

from our already short lives,

by losing ourselves
in our Blackberries, our iPhones,

by not paying attention
to the human being across from us

who is talking with us,

by being so lazy that we're not
willing to process deeply?

I learned firsthand

that there are incredible
memory capacities

latent in all of us.

But if you want to live a memorable life,

you have to be the kind of person

who remembers to remember.

Thank you.

(Applause)