I employ case studies of failure into my courses, emphasizing

Host: The morning light filtered weakly through the large workshop windows, catching the dust motes that hung in the air like forgotten thoughts. The room was cluttered with blueprints, broken models, and the faint smell of metal and coffee. In one corner, an unfinished bridge model — thin beams of steel and wood — stood like a fragile skeleton of ambition.

Jack leaned over it, his hands streaked with graphite and oil, his eyes coldly focused on the cracks in one of the support joints. Across from him, Jeeny sat on a stool, her notebook open, sketching quietly. The radio whispered a classical piece — Bach, slow and mournful.

The air carried the quiet tension of minds wrestling with both creation and regret.

Jeeny: “Henry Petroski once said, ‘I employ case studies of failure into my courses, emphasizing that they teach us much more than studies of success.’ I think that’s one of the most honest things an engineer ever said.”

Jack: “Of course he said that — he studied failure for a living. People who fail a lot always romanticize it. Makes the crash feel noble.”

Host: The sunlight moved across Jack’s face, highlighting the rough lines carved by years of skepticism. His voice was low, edged with that familiar mixture of irony and weariness.

Jeeny: “You don’t believe failure teaches us?”

Jack: “It teaches you that gravity still works. That’s about it. Everyone says failure builds character, but tell that to the guy whose bridge collapsed. You don’t learn much when the lesson kills you.”

Jeeny: “But we wouldn’t know how close to collapse we are without those lessons. That’s Petroski’s point — that failure defines the limits of our understanding. You can’t appreciate strength until you’ve seen what breaks.”

Jack: “You sound like you’re trying to justify the pain. Like suffering’s some divine curriculum.”

Jeeny: “Not divine — necessary. Think of it like evolution. Nature doesn’t progress through success. It evolves through mistakes — through failure that reveals what doesn’t work.”

Host: Jeeny spoke softly, her eyes tracing the outline of the half-built bridge. Jack lit a cigarette, the smoke rising like a ghost of burnt dreams between them. The music from the radio deepened, the violins almost pleading.

Jack: “Easy to say when the failure isn’t yours. When it’s theory, not consequence. Petroski can sit in his classroom dissecting broken designs, but he doesn’t stand under the bridge when it falls.”

Jeeny: “That’s not fair, Jack. He’s trying to make sure others don’t repeat the same mistakes. You can’t design perfection without understanding the anatomy of collapse.”

Jack: “Perfection’s a myth. Every structure, every system, every human being — we all exist one fracture away from ruin. The best you can do is delay failure, not escape it.”

Jeeny: “Then why build at all?”

Jack: “Because we’re arrogant enough to think we can beat entropy.”

Host: The wind outside pressed against the windows, rattling the panes like the quiet laughter of the universe. Jeeny stopped sketching and looked up, her expression calm, almost defiant.

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not arrogance. Maybe it’s faith. We build because failure doesn’t stop us. Because every collapse carries the seed of something stronger.”

Jack: “Faith? In what — human error?”

Jeeny: “In human persistence.”

Host: Jack inhaled, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the fragile bridge model. A small crack had formed at one of the joints, and the beam trembled slightly under its own weight.

Jack: “You ever notice how we never study success as deeply? Because success sedates us. We celebrate, we stop thinking. It’s failure that wakes us up. Maybe that’s the only thing we really learn from — the discomfort.”

Jeeny: “That’s closer to what Petroski meant, Jack.”

Jack: “Yeah, well, it still doesn’t make it any less brutal.”

Jeeny: “No — but maybe the brutality’s the point. Maybe we need the pain to remind us we’re mortal, that our designs — our systems, our ideas — are fragile. That humility keeps us alive.”

Host: A long silence fell. The clock on the wall ticked, marking the steady rhythm of time — unbending, impartial. The bridge model creaked faintly.

Jack: “You really think failure’s a teacher and not a punishment?”

Jeeny: “I think failure’s the most honest teacher there is. It doesn’t flatter you. It doesn’t lie. It tells you exactly what you ignored.”

Jack: “And what if you already know what went wrong? What if the lesson was clear from the start, but you were too tired to care?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the second lesson — that even knowledge fails when pride leads.”

Host: The radio cut out mid-note, replaced by a soft hum of static. Jack leaned back in his chair, exhaling a slow breath. Jeeny walked to the table, studying the trembling model. She pressed a fingertip lightly against one of the joints. It held — barely.

Jeeny: “You know the Tacoma Narrows Bridge?”

Jack: “The one that twisted itself to death?”

Jeeny: “Yes. 1940. They called it Galloping Gertie. It was supposed to be revolutionary — thinner, lighter, graceful. But the designers ignored how wind could create resonance. It danced itself apart in four months. Petroski said that bridge taught engineers more about aerodynamics than a hundred successful designs ever did.”

Jack: “Because it failed spectacularly.”

Jeeny: “Because it showed how close we always are to failure. How fragile our confidence is.”

Jack: “And yet, we keep building.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the paradox of creation — we build because we fail, and we fail because we build. It’s the same motion, just seen from different sides.”

Host: The light changed again — warmer now, golden. It spilled across the table, lighting the fine dust particles like floating embers. Jack looked down at his cigarette, now burned to ash.

Jack: “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe failure’s not the opposite of success — maybe it’s the foundation.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every success rests on a graveyard of failures — designs that cracked, ideas that collapsed, people who tried and fell.”

Jack: “Then we owe failure more gratitude than we give it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. We owe it our humility.”

Host: Jack reached out and gently touched the bridge model. It wobbled, but didn’t fall. His grey eyes softened — the hardness giving way to something quieter, almost reverent.

Jack: “You ever think maybe people work the same way? That we’re all just… prototypes? Built to break and rebuild until we get it right?”

Jeeny: “I think that’s what life is — one long experiment in structural integrity.”

Host: They both laughed softly — not out of humor, but recognition. The sound filled the workshop like a small, fragile song of surrender and acceptance.

The light outside had turned to amber. The bridge still stood, its flaws visible, but its form intact — like an idea that refused to collapse entirely.

Host: And in that moment, the room felt less like a place of work and more like a cathedral — one built not of perfection, but of effort. Failure, once feared, had become sacred; the quiet proof that even in breaking, there is learning.

Because as Petroski knew — and as they both now did — the edge of failure is where the truth of design, and of living, begins.

And sometimes, the most enduring bridges are the ones that first learned how to fall.