Jan 11 JDN 2461052
I received the news when I woke up on January 5 that Jens Zorn had passed away the previous night.
He was born in 1931, so he died at the age of 94; we can all only hope for a run like that. (If I make it as long, I’ll live until 2082. At this point I’m not sure humanity is going to make it that long.) So I can’t exactly be shocked that his life ended, but I still feel like a part of me has been torn away.
Jens was a great mentor to me. I met him through the Saturday Morning Physics program at the University of Michigan, which I attended all through high school. (Oddly enough, my biology teacher in 9th grade gave extra credit for it, but my physics teacher in 10th grade did not.) I then arranged to take his course in intro quantum mechanics as a dual-enrolled high school and college student.
He was of course brilliant—he was a quantum physics professor—but he was also kind, understanding, and down-to-earth in a way that defied the usual stereotypes about physicists. He was also an artist; he created a number of metal sculptures around campus, most of which commemorate major discoveries in physics that were made at Michigan. I think my favorite is the elegant Positronium. As someone who also combines both scientific and artistic interests, I felt like we were (so to speak) on the same wavelength. Maybe that’s why he took me under his wing.
Jens saw tremendous potential in me. He believed I could be a great physicist. He helped arrange numerous opportunities for me to participate in theoretical physics research in high school and college.
Jens also helped my career in other ways. He helped me get summer jobs at the University of Michigan interviewing physicists to compile an oral history for the University’s bicentennial and doing some web development for the physics department. I still look back on those as the best jobs I ever had; they didn’t pay as well as Edinburgh (though by the hour they weren’t actually much worse), but I was actually happy at them in a way I’m not sure I’ve been happy at any job before or since. The work came easily, I got everything done well and ahead of schedule, and I felt like I was making a real contribution.
In some ways, I feel like I let Jens down. For one thing, I didn’t become a physicist at all. I dabbled in philosophy, linguistics, and cognitive science before finally settling on economics for graduate school. But I think he would still have been happy for me if I had been successful as an economist, or even as a science fiction author. The way I really feel like I let him down was by not being particularly successful at anything at all.
He believed in me when I didn’t; and I think he died still believing in me even though I’m still not sure I do. He saw something in me that I don’t see—and he isn’t the only one who saw it, so I can’t say it was just a mistake. But it also seems like “the world”, or “the market”, or whatever we want to call those inscrutable impersonal forces that actually decide where people end up in life, doesn’t really see it in me either. So I’m left to wonder why so many people have told me they believe I am destined for excellence when actually achieving even mediocrity has been so elusive. Can “the world” be wrong? Could I still have a chance, after all these years of failure?
One thing I know for sure: If I do, Jens Zorn won’t be around to congratulate me—just like my father won’t.
Human Economics 