It was with great sadness that I and my colleagues at Nature learned of the death on Sunday of Sir John Maddox — or 'JM', as his colleagues always referred to him.
There was puzzlement, too. Yes, John had been looking frail recently, but, well, this was JM — the perpetually restless, irresistible, unstoppable force. The editor who conducted some gatherings with 'shock and awe' as some recall. The 'man with a whim of iron' as others used to call him. And the man who survived countless cigarettes and glasses of red wine, many consumed late into the night as he wrote the week's Editorials at the last possible moment.
Full tributes to him will appear in next week's issue, but it is appropriate promptly to recall (JM never split an infinitive) some of the highlights of his time at Nature. He first took the reins as the editor of Nature in 1966. He was the fourth editor — the journal was founded in 1869, and his predecessors had lengthy stints, the first, Norman Lockyer, being in charge for 50 years. John served until 1973, when he was succeeded by David Davies. He then returned in 1980, and I succeeded him in December 1995.
It was during his first stint that he laid the foundations for Nature as it is today. Importantly (JM liked to start sentences with adverbs), he threw aside the highly informal and somewhat crony-based system for selecting papers and established a system of peer review. A characteristically readable account of this can be found in his valedictory Essay in his last issue (see Nature 378, 521–523; 1995).
This move was not without his own reservations — he liked to say that the 1953 paper on the structure of DNA would never have passed peer review. He never lost his distrust of such refereeing as an obstacle to the truly original, and occasionally dispensed with it altogether during his first stint as editor.
He also established a strong tradition of journalism in Nature. John was a man of many parts but above all he was a journalist, and took pride both in the label and in the craft. He had trained and researched as a physicist, he had an all-consuming intellect, he absorbed research as fast as he could read it — and he was a virtuoso science writer, coming to Nature with substantial experience as a newspaper science correspondent. Many leading writers and editors in today's science media passed through Nature during his time, and learned above all how to recognize and seize moments of editorial opportunity even if, many a time, flying by the seat of one's pants. He established the 'voice of Nature' in unsigned Editorials (although the voice was often unmistakably his own). And he led the way in developing extensive supplements in which he reported and opined over many pages, often compelling in their narrative, his penetrating perceptions of the state of science and its leadership in this country or that.
So for what else, apart from clouds of cigarette smoke, will John be remembered? Recollections that I have heard from readers over the years include his championing of a research agenda even before many of those in the field had recognized it. Others recall controversial decisions and opinions that were even offensive to some but which, to others more detached from the fray, 'added to the gaiety of nations'. Many who knew him personally will remember a dry and incisive wit, alongside a strong streak of human kindness.
JM was unique, and those of us who knew him and learned from him will feel the world to be a smaller place in his absence. But his was a powerful spirit, and we continue to thrive on it.
Philip Campbell is editor-in-chief of Nature.
So much is clear.
... What, then, is to be done?
Beat me to it Henry. Then again, I did say as much to someone else earlier today. No one has mentioned that John could be a mischievous bugger when he felt like it. He definitely had a sense of humour. I certainly remember the clouds of cigarette smoke. sometimes managed to kick the habit long enough for a lunch. I remember a particularly entertaining session at the Athenaeum when Lord Shackleton was successfully lining up Nature and New Scientist behind what turned out to be a failed attempt to buy a nunnery.
'To be sure' is the JM phrase my generation of Nature staff remember (I came as Chief SubEditor in 1969). But I deeply respected John's literary skills, and even his pedantic foibles: e.g. 'in (not under) the circumstances'. He had us writing summaries of the longer articles when he felt the authors were not communicating adequately. In the era of 'hot metal' typography, two of us made the weekly journey to Fisher-Knight in St Albans to sign off the last pages, or even to wait for John to finish his editorial! He had an instinct for writing just one or two lines too much, which we then had the pleasure of cutting back in proof. He made Nature fun - we certainly enjoyed bringing out the Centenary issue (1.11.69) and the celebratory conference and dinner. John Morris
"Spurious co-authorship." Euphemism, not!
John Maddox's dislike of the tedious and boring revolutionized Nature and scientific writing especially for many of us who started in the late '60s - "We have discovered X" was his recommendation for starting a scientific note or paper. A great man and leader of scientific thought, direction and exposition in advance of the 21st C. George Fink
My favorite memory was listening to JM's talk one night at Harvard Science Center (that must be sometime after 1995, but before 2003), in which he told a story to the audience in the lecture hall that he and his colleagues at Nature floated a short-lived idea of creating a subsidiary journal, called ?Second Nature?, to find a room for publishing those papers rejected by Nature.
His book "What Remains to be Known" was a true classic to me. We need more men of his ilk who have the perspective to remember that our knowledge in science is still fragmentary and we need to spend more time in humble consideration of our ignorance. A truly great man Donald Weaver