by Ashutosh Jogalekar

There are physicists, and then there are physicists. There are engineers, and then there are engineers. There are government advisors, and then there are government advisors.

And then there’s Dick Garwin.

Richard L. Garwin, who his friends and colleagues called Dick, has died at the age of 97. He was a man whose soul imbibed technical brilliance and whose life threaded the narrow corridor between Promethean power and principled restraint. A scientist of prodigious intellect and unyielding moral seriousness, his career spanned the detonations of the Cold War and the dimming of the Enlightenment spirit in American public life. He was, without fanfare or affectation, the quintessential citizen-scientist—at once a master of equations and a steward of consequence. When you needed objective scientific advice on virtually any technological or defense-related question, you asked Dick Garwin, even when you did not like the advice. Especially when you did not like it. And yet he was described as “the most influential scientist you have never heard of”, legendary in the world of physics and national security but virtually unknown outside it.

He was born in Cleveland in 1928 to Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe, and quickly distinguished himself as a student whose mind moved with the inexorable clarity of first principles. His father was an electronics technician and high school science teacher who moonlighted as a movie projectionist. As a young child Garwin was already taking things apart, with the promise of reassembling them. By the age of 21 he had earned his Ph.D. under Enrico Fermi, who—legend has it—once remarked that Garwin was the only true genius he had ever met. This was not idle flattery. After Fermi, Dick Garwin might be the closest thing we have had to a universal scientist who understood the applied workings of every branch of physics and technology. There was no system whose principles he did not comprehend, whether mechanical, electrical or thermodynamic, no machine that he could not fix, no calculation that fazed him. Just two years after getting his Ph.D., Garwin would design the first working hydrogen bomb, a device of unprecedented and appalling potency, whose test, dubbed “Ivy Mike,” would usher in a new and even graver chapter of the nuclear age. Read more »