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.
Yet Garwin was never intoxicated by power. Because he thought the creation of the hydrogen bomb was driven by the exigencies of the age, he did not regret his work, but neither did he revel in it, seeking instead to control its worst excesses. For decades his contribution remained unknown, and he never bothered to update the record, saying that he could either get something done or get credit for it, but not both. Unlike many of his contemporaries, who leapt eagerly into the vortex of Cold War prestige and developed the braggadocio to go along with it, Garwin remained a paradoxical figure: at once the architect of supreme destructive force and one of its most persistent critics. He understood—perhaps more than any other scientist of his generation—that technical brilliance without ethical deliberation is merely efficiency in the service of catastrophe. He understood that his main job was to shoot down boondoggles and billion‑dollar bad ideas which were a defense department specialty. As perhaps the best example of how he saw his main function as offering stone‑cold sober advice based on the best technical analysis, he along with Hans Bethe pointed out fatal flaws with the Johnson administration’s ABM system and the Reagan administration’s SDI (Strategic Defense Initiative, derisively called Star Wars) system. As a member of Nixon’s science advisory council, he killed the proposal for a supersonic jetliner after citing noise pollution and structural concerns. In return the vindictive Nixon killed the science advisory council.
Garwin would advise every president from Truman to Obama, Republican and Democrat alike, offering a rare and vanishing example of a mind that could not be bought, flattered, or ideologically corralled. George W. Bush awarded him the National Medal of Science; Obama the nation’s highest civilian honor, the Presidential Medal of Freedom. He advised Kennedy during the Cuban Missile Crisis, pushed for the Anti‑Ballistic Missile Treaty under Nixon, helped Obama deal with the Deep Horizon Oil Spill and warned, presciently, of the folly of weaponizing space. From submarines to space weapons, from missile defense to nuclear disarmament, from oil spills to solar power, there was no field in which Garwin was not an expert, often the preeminent expert. Long after his hydrogen bomb design became a grim historical footnote, his advocacy for arms control, transparency, and rational defense policy continued unabated—earnest, unfashionable, and, above all, indispensable. As the physicist Freeman Dyson who was one of his fellow technical experts put it, Garwin was a prime example of how one man with a backpack could beat an army of government bureaucrats, if only that man’s name was Dick Garwin.
But to speak only of his role in the nuclear age is to risk caricature. Garwin’s genius was dazzlingly catholic. His parallel career at IBM mirrored some of the great technological innovations of our modern age. IBM prized him so highly that they allowed him to spend a third of his time doing classified government work on their dime. And their astute hiring decision paid off in spades. Garwin’s fingerprints are found in the design of gravitational wave detectors, in the refinement of MRI technology, in the development of GPS and satellite reconnaissance systems. He contributed to the understanding of superconductivity, to the design of the compact disc and the touch screen, to cryptography and to high‑energy physics – he narrowly missed the Nobel Prize for an experiment he conducted in his 20s to demonstrate what’s called parity violation in beta decay. And he did all this with a kind of quiet, omnidirectional intensity that shunned limelight but advanced civilization in tangible ways.
Garwin authored over 500 scientific papers, many of them marked not just by precision but by restraint—proposing solutions rather than pronouncements, elevating fact over flourish. He felt it his public responsibility to put almost the entire corpus of his unclassified work online at the Garwin Archive – more than 1600 pages of presentations, talks and technical analysis covering almost every defense‑related topic. If the academy in recent decades has become a theater of self‑display, Garwin belonged to an older order: one in which brilliance did not demand amplification, and integrity required no branding. As he said in a documentary made about him a few years ago, the preservation of our democracy was his lodestar; nothing else mattered if that goal could not be achieved.
Garwin kept on working, traveling, advising, relentlessly, until almost his last day. When he was 88 I had the privilege of having an email exchange with him about a project I was working on. My one‑paragraph question was answered with four paragraphs less than an hour after my message; characteristic of Dick, he also pointed me to technical tools that could aid my query. He sent me a touching obituary he had written of his wife of more than sixty‑five years, Lois, who had just died and who had been his pillar in supporting him and raising their three children.
It is difficult not to view Garwin’s passing as something more than a personal loss. It is the departure of a type—perhaps the last of a type. A scientist who not only understood the arcana of physics, but who grasped the frailty of human institutions and the perils of unmediated power. A man who could, with equal ease, work out a thermonuclear cascade and dismantle a delusion in a Senate hearing room. That such a figure would exit the stage at a moment not just when the world sorely needs him but when the machinery of government not only disregards scientific counsel but actively spurns it – preferring instead the solipsistic comfort of invented facts fueled by ideological biases – renders his absence all the more acute. Garwin represented the moral and intellectual ballast that keeps a civilization grounded, and without which it begins to drift. There were a select few handful like him – Hans Bethe, Freeman Dyson, Sidney Drell. But he was the last. That we are now adrift makes his departure feel less like the close of a chapter than the dimming of the last light on the horizon. His life, to those who knew it, offers a retort to cynicism. In an age when expertise is increasingly sneered at, and when the distinction between persuasion and knowledge is recklessly blurred, Richard Garwin stood for the proposition that facts still matter, that thought must precede action, and that it is possible—however rarely—for brilliance to be in the service of restraint rather than abandon.