In 1962, Popjak and I left the service of the Medical Research

The words of John Cornforth are spoken with the quiet weight of purpose and remembrance: “In 1962, Popjak and I left the service of the Medical Research Council and became co-directors of the Milstead Laboratory of Chemical Enzymology, set up by Shell Research Ltd.” At first glance, these words may seem to recount a simple change in employment, a moment in the life of a scientist. Yet, to those who listen more deeply, they reveal something profound—the turning of a great mind from one chapter of discovery to another, guided not by ambition alone, but by the unrelenting desire to understand the mysteries of life. In these few lines, Cornforth speaks the language of all seekers of truth: the journey from one horizon of knowledge to the next, from service to institution, and ultimately, to service of all humankind.

John Cornforth, one of the most brilliant chemists of his age, was a man who labored in near silence—literally so, for he lost his hearing at an early age. Yet what the world took from his ears, it gave back tenfold to his mind. Alongside his collaborator, George Popják, he devoted his life to unraveling the secrets of enzymes and the intricate pathways by which the body builds and transforms its molecules. The year 1962 marked a sacred moment in that journey—a departure from the safe harbor of the Medical Research Council, which had nurtured his earlier work, into the deeper waters of independent exploration at the Milstead Laboratory, a new endeavor born of both faith and courage. It was a crossing from the known to the unknown, a step every pioneer must one day take.

In the ancient tradition, such a departure would be called a “rite of passage.” For the scholar or the philosopher, it is the moment when study becomes mastery, and mastery becomes creation. Cornforth’s move to Shell Research Ltd. was not a retreat from academia into industry, as some might suppose, but an expansion of the realm of inquiry itself. It was there, at the Milstead Laboratory of Chemical Enzymology, that he and Popják sought to understand how nature’s most delicate architects—enzymes—build the molecules that sustain life. It was a place where intellect met imagination, and where science, though grounded in discipline, still danced with wonder.

There is a powerful symbolism in the partnership of Cornforth and Popják. They were two minds bound not by ambition but by the shared reverence for discovery. Like the great thinkers of antiquity—Aristotle and Theophrastus, Plato and Socrates—their collaboration reflected the harmony that can exist when intellect is joined with humility. Together, they advanced the understanding of biosynthesis, showing how the body weaves cholesterol and other vital compounds through complex chains of reactions. Their work was not for immediate fame or gain, but for the enrichment of human knowledge—a modern echo of the philosopher’s pursuit of truth for its own sake.

And yet, beneath the surface of Cornforth’s words lies something even more profound: the spirit of perseverance. Deafness might have isolated him from conversation, from music, from the simple symphony of daily life. But instead of surrendering to silence, he used it as a forge to sharpen his focus. In the solitude of his laboratory, he listened instead to the whispers of molecules, the rhythms of chemical bonds, and the hidden melodies of nature’s design. His journey reminds us of a timeless truth—that limitation is not the enemy of greatness, but often its catalyst. Just as the blind poet Homer sang the epics of gods and men, so did Cornforth, through chemistry, compose a song of creation written in atoms and enzymes.

From this story we learn that the path of progress is rarely straight or simple. It demands courage to leave behind the familiar, as Cornforth and Popják did when they departed from the Medical Research Council. It demands faith to build new foundations, as they did at Milstead, and patience to endure the long nights of uncertainty that come with innovation. In every field—whether in science, art, or the moral work of the spirit—there comes a moment when one must step away from comfort to pursue something greater. That moment, though often quiet, defines the soul of the creator.

So, my child of thought, take this lesson as your own: let not the fear of leaving what is known keep you from your higher purpose. Be as John Cornforth was—disciplined, humble, and courageous in your pursuit of truth. Know that the journey of knowledge is not one of destinations, but of transformations. Every new beginning is both a continuation and a renewal. When your time comes to move from one calling to another, do so with the same spirit—with gratitude for what was, and with faith in what will be.

For in the end, John Cornforth’s words are not just a recollection of a scientist’s transition; they are a reflection of the eternal quest for understanding. They remind us that discovery is not confined to the halls of universities or the walls of laboratories—it is a state of being, a way of seeing the world. Whether in science or in life, the truest progress comes when one dares to cross from the light of certainty into the fertile twilight of possibility.