Mentor

One of my most important mentors died unexpectedly a year ago. It should not have been unexpected — he was 82. He died in the exact place he would have chosen, apparently almost instantly. His passing left some surprises.

He died intestate — no will — and his widow was suddenly left to deal with a part of his life that she knew little about. She co-hosted hundreds of evenings with his colleagues and students over the decades and knew as much about his work as she cared to know. Now there was all this stuff — rooms full of notes, books, reprints, specimens and equipment. She wanted to sell the house. She wanted it all out.

Although technocrats obsess over intellectual property, academics don't worry about it so much. The body of knowledge, and all that surrounds it, seems clearly to belong to us. But in reality, part of it belongs to our employers. But what part? And what do you do with it if your employer doesn’t want it? My mentor was always a dogmatic, forceful man and when he retired, he never accepted that he had lost much of his influence and power. He was forced out of his office and took everything home. Who does it belong to now? What has value? What is irreplaceable? The task of deciding what is worth saving and who should have what has fallen on three former students, each of us living in a different country. Unless his employer unexpectedly intervenes and makes demands.

I've been trying to reduce my own similar, but much smaller, scientific footprint for years. It is a combination of ensuring that all this scientific detritus is not a burden for someone else to sort through, and that the unique facts, notes and observations are captured in some way. As I work through my own pre-digital legacy, other colleagues have passed their notes and photographs on to me, hoping I will know what to do with them. We can never pass on all of our unique knowledge. The connections between all these unpublished data points exist only in our brains, have never been written down, and will have to be resynthesised by the next person who needs them.

My mentor was the grand old man of my micro-field and we took it for granted that he would be with us forever. He's not here to give advice or instruction anymore, so I will only be able to discuss things with him in my imagination. I was a little boy for a long time with him around to guide me. Here is the real shock: I am the grand old man now.

Produced and directed by...

Among many other pop icons, George Martin died in 2016. A classically educated man, he is credited with taking four raw, unformed lads from Liverpool and mentoring their transition into world-shaking originals. Although many tried to convince Mr. Martin to take more credit, his label was always producer and never creator. He recognized talent, did his best to nurture it and helped it into the world. Sound familiar? There are many parallels between this proven process in the arts and mentorship in the scientific world.

In science, everyone wants to be an author on as many papers as possible and many of us feel this is getting out of hand. I have colleagues who are 'authors' on more papers each year than most of us read in that time. Journals have complex guidelines to define contributions warranting authorship and everyone ignores them. The joke is that the guy who picks you up at the airport only does so if you agree to make him a coauthor. And he often is. Acknowledgements  seem not to be enough anymore.

Maybe we can learn something from George Martin and the Beatles.

Composers, performers, producers and directors. They are all involved in generating scientific research and publications. Maybe it is time to diversify credit for published research. It might satisfy everyone.

Unfocus, unzoom

In his first six months, our puppy was hyper-observant as he explored his new world, decoding the details relevant to his new life. He's a retriever, a bird dog, and on his first walks he lifted his head to the flocks of geese on their Arctic migration, evaluating nuances in their honking and flapping wings far beyond my perception. He often snapped at flowers dangling in front of his baby blue eyes and quivering nostrils. The world was fresh and exciting.

Because we were a bit older and less energetic, and because he was a more hyperactive creature in general, we succumbed early to the fetching game as a system of energy management for this puppy number two. It did not take him long to teach me how to throw the ball, and to demonstrate the correct procedure of placing it directly between my feet, where the balance of the universe would be improved if the ball were thrown again. The meaning of life is very simple. Together, we strived for perfection.

Eventually the animal world of creatures and plants faded for him. He paid no attention to birds. One day, a chipmunk ran directly across his paws without being acknowledged. The squirrels learned that he was no threat but also that he could not be harassed. They stopped chirping and throwing pine cones at him out of the trees. Their worlds had diverged. Only flying spheres or disks of plastic or nylon were relevant.

This contracting awareness of the broader world resembles what happens as scientists transform from undergrads with broad interests into grad students increasingly obsessed with a specific discipline then into professionals and experts. Laser-tight focus tunes out distractions and helps us zoom in on the unknown. But on many days, my preoccupation with my own corner of the microbial world feels delusional. I only care (or insist I don't care) about the opinions of other scientists with identical compulsions, and disdain or ignore others who have strayed from that true path, or those so misguided that they never found the true path at all.

As we get older, our senses dull and we can't always maintain the intensity of youth. Special skills and knowledge remain, but more and more it feels like we are retrieving the same ball and the dropping it between the same feet, over and over again. The creativity that once burned so brightly fades, we feel more like technicians than scientists, more like craftsmen than artists.

I often point at the birds or the moon or the stars for the dog as I try to zoom out and refocus and re-perceive the broader world. He's respectful and happy that I talk to him, but his attitude is clear: he has no use for the sky. He feels sorry for me. None of of my concerns are important. There are objects to be thrown and objects to be retrieved. Nothing else matters, at least to him and me.  Some of my colleagues react the same way when I express scientific ennui. And they feel the same pity for me that the dog does.