Just after graduation in 1966, like many of my contemporaries, I

In the reflective words, “Just after graduation in 1966, like many of my contemporaries, I applied for research training at the National Institutes of Health. Perhaps because his wife was a poet, Ira Pastan agreed to take me into his laboratory, despite my lack of scientific credentials,” Harold E. Varmus speaks with humility of the mysterious interplay between chance, mentorship, and destiny. Beneath his modest tone lies the seed of a truth known since the dawn of human endeavor — that greatness often begins not with mastery, but with opportunity met by readiness of spirit. Varmus’s journey reminds us that history is shaped not only by knowledge, but by the grace of those who see potential where others see unqualification.

The origin of this quote is deeply personal and historical. In 1966, the United States was embroiled in the Vietnam War, and many young scholars — Varmus among them — sought ways to serve their nation outside the battlefield. He applied for research training at the National Institutes of Health (NIH), though his background was in literature, not biomedicine. Yet, in that crossroads between art and science, fate intervened through Dr. Ira Pastan, a scientist known for his open mind and unconventional thinking. It was perhaps Pastan’s poet wife who saw something familiar in Varmus — a mind attuned to curiosity, metaphor, and meaning. Thus, a poet-turned-physician was welcomed into the temple of science, and the rest of his life would bear witness to the power of one generous choice.

What followed is one of the most remarkable transformations in modern scientific history. Harold Varmus would go on to make groundbreaking discoveries in cancer genetics, ultimately sharing the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine in 1989. The man who once felt unqualified would become a pioneer, leading the National Institutes of Health itself and later serving as Director of the National Cancer Institute. Yet even at the height of fame, he never forgot the improbable beginning — that a scientist, moved perhaps by poetry and intuition, took a chance on him. From that act of faith was born a life devoted to the intersection of science, humanity, and art.

There is something ancient and archetypal in this story. In every age, knowledge has advanced not only through intellect, but through compassion — the willingness of a mentor to open a door for one who does not yet belong. Just as Plato took in Aristotle, and Socrates guided the restless youth of Athens, so too did Pastan’s quiet faith give rise to a new lineage of discovery. The ancients called this bond philia, the noble friendship between teacher and student, in which wisdom is transmitted not merely through instruction, but through the shared flame of curiosity. Varmus’s tale reminds us that genius often requires permission — not to learn, but to begin.

It is also a parable about the union of art and science. Varmus, once a student of English literature, brought to his research the imagination of a storyteller — the ability to see patterns, to question appearances, to find meaning in the invisible. Science gave him precision, but literature had already taught him wonder. This fusion of disciplines became his strength, proving that knowledge, when divided into silos, loses its vitality. The poet’s sensitivity and the scientist’s rigor, joined together, created in him a new kind of thinker — one who could perceive both the data and the soul behind it.

In this, his experience mirrors that of Leonardo da Vinci, the Renaissance master who saw no boundary between art and anatomy, between aesthetics and mathematics. Leonardo’s sketches of the human heart and Varmus’s molecular diagrams of cancer both arise from the same sacred impulse — the desire to understand life in its totality. Both men reveal that the greatest discoveries come not from those who are qualified, but from those who are curious beyond permission.

The lesson, then, is clear: greatness is not granted only to the prepared, but to the open-minded. The path of learning is not a straight line, but a winding road that often begins in uncertainty. When others doubt your background or your right to enter a field, remember that passion and humility are credentials of their own. Seek those who, like Ira Pastan, can see your hunger instead of your lack — and when your time comes, be such a mentor for others.

And the practical action is this: never let your beginnings limit your becoming. Approach every field, every craft, as both student and poet — for poetry teaches you to see, and science teaches you to understand. When opportunity appears, even by accident, embrace it with gratitude and perseverance. For as Harold Varmus’s life reveals, sometimes a single act of belief — born from one mentor’s generosity, one poet’s eye, and one student’s courage — can ignite a lifetime of discovery and change the course of human knowledge itself.