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WELCOME & REFLECTIONS

Rabbi Hillel Cohn

 

We have gathered here in this awe-inspiring setting to share our grief, and to also share our appreciation of the life of Irwin Sherman. We embrace Irwin’s family—his children and grandchildren—with our love. We hope that by our very presence—something far more significant than any words that we might say—we bring them some comfort.

 

Even though a few months have passed since Irwin’s death, the sense of loss and the accompanying sadness and pain remain with his family and friends. While we would like to fully concur with the oft-spoken words that “Time is the gentle healer,” we know today that the passage of time has not really lessened the emotional wound that Irwin’s death has brought us.

 

Today we pay honor to the life not only of a devoted husband, father, grandfather, and friend, but of a truly great scientist, educator, scholar, author, academician, leader of higher education, and now—having been surprised by the exhibit of so many magnificent works on display—we can add great artist as well.

 

We acknowledge, as I know Irwin would want us to do, his death. In an insightful reflection on death, it is written:

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“Death has cast its dark shadow over us, and it has left us all deeply bereft. A voice has been stilled, a heart has been stopped, laughter has departed, joy has fled. Gone are the warmth and the glow of a loved one’s presence. The chain of love has lost a vital link. Death has taken a life which was precious; it has brought pain, loneliness, and sorrow. And yet there is so much which death cannot touch, so much over which it has no dominion. Death cannot rob us of our past: the years, the dreams, the experiences which we shared. Death cannot take from us the love we knew; it is woven into the tapestry of our lives... What we have had we shall always possess; what we have known, we shall always hold dear...” (Minyan of Comfort, ed. Rabbi Sidney Greenberg, Rabbi Jonathan Levine, Prayer Book Press, ©1990)

 

It was my great honor and privilege to have known Irwin for close to 60 years. Those years included my having been able to facilitate Irwin and Vilia’s legal marriage on the East Coast and then to officiate at the more traditional ceremony in San Bernardino. And it was my delight to guide Vilia’s exploration of Judaism and then to formally welcome her into the Jewish People. It was my joy to celebrate with them the births of Jonathan and Alexa and to officiate many years later at Jonathan and Maggie’s wedding and so much more. The amazing partnership that Vilia and Irwin shared is in and of itself a fantastic story.

 

Irwin welcomed Vilia into his world of scholarship and research. They co-authored important studies. And then Irwin encouraged and supported Vilia’s determination to take on a second career, one that made her not just a distinguished and highly respected attorney, but that ultimately found her becoming an admired and highly respected jurist.

 

And while continuing to pursue their careers they created a wonderful family with both Jonathan and Alexa bringing them so much pride and joy … and bringing into their lives Maggie and Joel and then adding to Irwin and Vilia’s joy, becoming grandparents to Zachary, Jack, and Nathaniel.

 

Much will be said today about Irwin’s many achievements. Let me provide one context for the words of tribute that we shall hear. Among the many speculations—and that is what they are, speculations—about what happens when one dies there is in Jewish tradition a legend that flows from Judaism’s eternal insistence on learning and education. Long, long ago, our ancestors expressed their appreciation of education by prizing the Yeshiva, the academy, the place of learning. But they expressed a belief that there were two Yeshivot, two academies. One was that which we find on earth, and which becomes essential to our lives. It is the school, the university, the place of learning. It is the Yeshiva shel mata, the academy here on earth. And the second is what they called the Yeshiva shel maala, the Academy on high, that which might just exist in the heavens. There are exceptional people who, when they die, are welcomed into that Yeshiva, that academy on high, and it is there - so the legend goes - that they continue to study and teach, to engage in scholarship and advance learning.

 

Whether or not it is a myth or legend, I would like to believe that Irwin has gone to that Academy on High and right now is engaged in overseeing, organizing, encouraging, directing, supervising learning and study, and advancing scholarship.

 

As the biblical prophet Malachi said, “True instruction was on his lips and he did not give voice to unrighteousness.” And to that we add words based on the biblical book of Job: “when a wise man dies, how can he be replaced? There is a source for silver, and a place where gold is refined. Iron is taken from the earth, and from stone copper is smelted. But where can wisdom be found? And where is the place of understanding? When a wise man dies, how can he be replaced?”

 

Irwin Sherman cannot be replaced. Let us today and in all the tomorrows to come express our appreciation of his life and continue to honor his memory.

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REMEMBRANCES

Jonathan Sherman, son

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Before I begin my formal remarks, I first want to say thank you. To Rabbi Cohn for his compassion and kindness in both life and death. And to all of you for being here, from near and far to honor my dad. And, to my family and to my friends for their much-needed support during the last few months. But I want to single out two people, my wife Maggie and my sister Alexa. Because while no one said this would be easy, without them it would have been much, much harder. This concludes my informal remarks.

 

Irwin Sherman.  His name alone tells you that he was of a particular generation.

 

Also, that his parents were not native English-speakers. At least it’s not Herman Sherman.

 

I know. It’s a memorial, but I think it’s good to open with something light. And it could’ve been worse. Also in the running was “Hello Sharks!” (For those of you on Zoom, that’s a location-specific joke – there are actual sharks over there). And, I thought about wearing a duck suit – which is not location-specific, it is my-dad-specific. A dad who, as a kid, I remember was mostly at work, in his lab or his classroom, or taking care of his ducks. And I knew about the ducks because occasionally he’d have to go in on the weekend and my sister and I would get to tag along and he’d show them to us, crammed into this windowless room, confined to a pair of massive pens, desperately quacking without interruption beneath banks of fluorescent lights that were on for 12 hours and then off for 12 hours. So, you know, pretty much a duck’s natural environment.

 

In any case, because of this, at every birthday or Father’s Day, Irwin Sherman got himself a duck-themed present. Suspenders. Ties. Bookends. An umbrella with a handle carved in the shape of a duck head. Because anyone with that many ducks must really love ducks.

 

Of course, as you already know or guessed, he didn’t love ducks. You don’t purposely inject the things you love with malaria. Those ducks were just web-footed vessels for what he did love, which was the science of parasitology.

 

I remember sometimes saying to him, “when are you going to cure Malaria?” And he would say, “You better hope I don’t, or I’ll be out of a job.”  And he never was. 

 

He loved his work so much that he continued to research, write, and publish on it long after he was supposed to have retired. Which, if you think about it, is a pretty clever trick, to make a parasite sustain your life instead of the other way round.

 

His other great loves were – in no particular order – painting, travel, his ocean view, and his family.  And his great enemies were the foolish, the stupid, the thoughtless, and the vain. To paraphrase noted philosopher Linus Van Pelt, he loved mankind, but there were people he couldn’t stand.

 

And he painted so many canvasses that we’re not just asking you to take one, we’re requiring it. It’s like a backwards vaccine card – you’re gonna have to show it to leave.

 

He went so many places, literally from Antarctica to Zambia that I think it would be quicker to name the countries he didn’t visit. He really, really loved to travel.

 

But, a little over two years ago, when he was prevented by the pandemic and a failing heart valve from continuing to explore those last few corners of the world, I am grateful that he still had his ocean view. And, for our weekend Zooms. And, for the Father’s Day last June when we were finally able to be together again – and he got not a single duck-themed present. We were lucky to have had him in our lives for as long as we did. He was good to us – all of us. And I miss him.

 

Beyond the writing of many, many scholarly books and papers, and his Wikipedia page, and his own obituary (he seriously never stopped writing) – he also composed a memoir.  Which, for long, dense, semi-impenetrable stretches, is also super scholarly. But…if a person were, say, to skim those particular parts, by its final chapter you are rewarded with some of his reflections. And so, rather than leave you with my thoughts on his life, I’ll leave you with his:

 

From the very first day I entered a research laboratory I considered myself a scientist—trying to understand Nature. Or, as Immanuel Kant put it: to be engaged in the restless endeavor to get at the truth of things. Being a microbe hunter has been a delight and almost nothing compares to being the first to solve a problem or make a discovery.  Over the years, I have come to understand that scientists are people, with all the foibles of our species; we are not solitary misanthropes in white coats; we need the acceptance and appreciation by our peers of our research. I have been lucky to be rewarded…for doing what I have loved. It has been a privilege to be a participant in the grand adventure of [the] exploration of Nature. 

 

I am now 85 years of age and entering the twilight of my life.

 

I am not and never have been a romantic. I am a bit of an egoist, an iconoclast, and an overconfident, unforgiving, obstinate snob. I am not brilliant but take comfort in that in the end a brain will beat out looks and brawn. Because humor can leaven the trials and tribulations of our existence, I have tried to look upon life with a comedic slant to lighten the more serious and depressing times.

 

I have softened and am much more mellow, not as compulsive, less fastidious, and less inclined to be driven to be on top.

 

I want to remain strong, independent, a rational critic, demanding of others (and myself). I remain truthful. I am not a Utopian although I do believe in a better world and in some way, I hope my life’s work has contributed to that betterment.

 

I want to feel I have a special reason for being alive—in the past it was my microbe hunting—today it is to provide strength, support and love for my children, Jonathan and Alexa, my Grandsons, Zachary, Nathaniel and Jack, and the woman who now shares a good part of my life, Gail.

 

There is no prescription for being a better and more loving person. Some of it is already written in your DNA, passed down through the generations, but importantly it can be molded by experience and self-determination. Be curious, be excited, and look beyond the horizon. And, to thine own self be true!

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REMEMBRANCES/EULOGY FOR AN IRWIN

Alexa Young, daughter

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Hey … I’m Alexa. The emotional one. But as much as what I’ll say here today comes filtered through the lens of a daughter devastated over the loss of her father, I know this is so much bigger than me, my feelings, my loss. I also know the word “gratitude” (#grateful!) feels a lot like a platitude these days—yet for nearly 89 years, my father was a walking, talking example of it. I consistently saw his gratitude for all he had in life, and I learned, in many ways though his example, how to be grateful myself, particularly in the face of his immense generosity.

 

That’s why I first want to express my gratitude to all of you for being here—on Zoom (which I hope is working), and in person. Through the years, I’ve often been blown away by how much people admired, respected, and loved my dad. As one of his two children, I occasionally found that to be somewhat intimidating, and a lot to live up to. But mostly I felt grateful to have had such a powerful source of inspiration—small in stature, but a true giant among men—and I’m thankful we all got to experience some of that “Irwin magic,” as I like to call it. I especially appreciate the way so many of you have shared how much he impacted your lives … in your incredibly touching letters and emails, during our conversations, and by being here today.

 

I must also thank my brother for being an absolute rock as we’ve muddled through this difficult time. Losing the first parent sucks. Losing the second sucks exponentially. If you know, you know. Also, Gail: We’ve become so much closer these past few months, and your friendship has helped me in so many ways. I also know how much your companionship meant to my dad, and I love that you were able to share so many good times together, traveling the world and checking off even more adventures on his (and hopefully your?!) bucket list. Of course, I don’t know if I’d have survived much of anything without Joel and Jack by my side on this rollercoaster. As much as my kid loves those kinds of rides, and I sometimes do too, I don’t recommend this one at all. Zero stars. Very disappointing.

 

In fact, at risk of sounding like an existential Karen, I’d like to speak to the manager about this whole human body thing. Because if you ask me—and I’m pretty sure if you asked my dad, at least over the last few years, he would have agreed—there are some serious flaws in the design. As both a scientist and someone who lived long enough for his body to fail him, my dad knew a lot about its shortcomings. “Getting old sucks,” became a regular refrain during our many recent conversations. Even as things progressed, he tried not to complain, but it became painfully clear that modern medicine was also failing him.

 

And so, the person I want to thank most is no longer with us—although, at risk of sounding trite, in a lot of ways I feel like he is. Especially as I’ve struggled through this tremendous loss, I’ve still been able to hear the words he occasionally (OK, frequently) said to me: “Stop crying! It’s not that bad! Don’t make a situation worse than it already is!”

 

Like I said, I’m the emotional one. My dad had much thicker skin—and it tanned beautifully! So, even as his heart condition worsened, his breathing became more labored, his life became dominated by more medications than an any human being should ever be asked to manage—and let’s not forget about the root canal in his final couple of weeks—he still tried to maintain his sense of humor, to keep things in perspective, and to be grateful for all he still had.

 

But the challenges kept mounting. So, the day before he died, when we were dealing with a plumbing disaster at his place, for a fleeting moment, he was the one becoming emotional, and his perspective seemed to be waning. That evening, after a 10pm call with his cardiologist, I could see how dejected he felt, and he apologized for being a burden. I knew from many conversations how desperately he hated to burden anyone—and then, if I may be so bold for a moment, I was the one putting it all in perspective, telling him not to worry, that we’d get it handled. The gratitude returned to his eyes, and he replied, “You’re wonderful, Alexa.” With that, we said goodnight.

 

Earlier that day, he had two “out of body experiences,” as he described them. So, when I went to bed, maybe I knew what was coming—or maybe I was simply flooded with gratitude. Either way, before I fell asleep, I felt compelled to write the following in the notes on my phone:

 

1/4/22: GRATEFUL FOR…Conversations about plumbing (of humans and homes), life’s lessons and trappings and absurdities and frustrations with extreme transparency (and occasional sarcasm) with my father.

 

Viewing ‘BBC News’ and ‘Antiques Roadshow’ (and PBS everything) and ‘Jeopardy!’ on a more regular basis, thanks to…you guessed it! My father ☺️

 

Looking through old family photos—even/especially ones of my parents and their many incredible and enviable globetrotting adventures and dreaming of taking similar journeys with Joel … and Jack if he’s willing to join.

 

Those are some of the things about my dad—his perspective, his sense of humor, how admired and respected and generous and grateful and strong he was—that will stay with me forever. There are so many other things I want you to know and remember about him too, but if I spoke about all of them, we’d be here for weeks, and I don’t want to do that to any of you. So, if I had to choose just one more, it would be this:

 

He was a man of action … and not just in the bedroom. OK, maybe that too. In fact, right here in his autograph book from Hermann Ridder Junior High, where it asks him to name his favorite sport, what do you think he wrote? (Bear in mind that this was 1947 and he was not a sporty guy.) What was Irwin’s favorite sport? “INDOOR”—and I don’t think he meant table tennis.

 

The good news is you can read all about his love of indoor sports in his memoir! But that’s not what I want you to remember. What I mean is that, for all the words he spoke in conversations, lecture halls, and beyond, he believed they meant nothing if they weren’t backed up with actions. Proof. Evidence. That’s a scientist for you.

 

It’s also probably why the words “I love you” weren’t often said in our family. My dad especially believed we didn’t need to say it so much as show it. We didn’t always get it right, but on the occasions we did, that’s when love became real. And if we fell short? We didn’t simply say we were sorry … my dad couldn’t stand empty apologies either. You can’t say you’re sorry unless you prove it. You show it. Again, our actions needed to reflect and reinforce our words.

 

Of course, if you ask me if I loved this man, I’ll say I did. And if you ask me if I’m sorry for this loss…sorry doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’m gutted. Shattered. 

 

But again, those are mere words. How do I prove them? I get up each day and keep trying to be the kind of person my dad was—in word and in deed. I know I won’t always get it right. But I’ll continue to try.

 

In fact, here’s another one from his junior high autograph book … Favorite Motto? He wrote: “TRY, TRY AGAIN.”

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And that truly was my dad: In everything he did, he kept trying to do better, to be better—in relationships, in his work, in life, and even as death approached. I guess those are some of the less flawed parts of being human … but only if you have the kind of strength and grit my father did. If you’re lucky enough to be that kind of person, or to have them in your life in any capacity, you laugh in the face of obstacles and keep trying. You give it everything you’ve got—in bed! No, in all that you do. That’s who Irwin Sherman was. As he said so often in his final days, “I have nothing left on my bucket list.” It was truly a life well-lived—and for that, I am deeply, deeply grateful.

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REMEMBRANCES

Leah Haimo, friend and colleague

 

I wish to extend my heartfelt condolences to Jonathan, Alexa, Maggie, Joel, Zach, Nate and Jack. It has been a privilege, for more than 40 years, to have known your father, father-in-law and grandfather, and I thank you for providing me this opportunity to share a bit of my own small window into Sherm’s life which was a full and rewarding one of family, friends and boundless passion for science. Sherm was a force of nature such that it is difficult to believe he is with us here today only in our memories.  I think he would have really liked to have heard what we have to say about him, and I think it likely that he would have enjoyed arguing a point here or there. 

 

Sherm had a remarkable career, as I am sure you know.  Sherm joined the UCR faculty, at age 29, in 1962 when the campus was just a fledgling university, and was instrumental in helping to shape it into the research institution it is today. He rose through the academic ranks and served as chair of Biology, dean of the college, Executive Vice Chancellor of the campus, and then chair of the Academic Senate. Throughout, he maintained an active, productive and well funded research program and simultaneously delighted students with his engaging approach to teaching, both in his parasitology course and in a history of disease course where he often looked as if he had stepped out of another century, given that he dressed as the scientist who had solved the disease under discussion that day. Sherm was focused on a lifelong quest to understand and prevent malaria, a disease that continues to wreak havoc and pain on the lives of millions of people and to cause hundreds of thousands of deaths each year.  His very first publication, from 1960, Sherman and Hull, in the Journal of Protozoology, was focused on the malaria parasite as was his last, “The Malaria Genome Project” published in 2012.  Sherm was a prolific author not only of scholarly works but also of books intended to interest and engage a lay audience in the importance of science in our lives. One of these:  “Twelve Disease that changed our World” documents how diseases, including malaria, have shaped, altered and even destroyed societies.   Published in 2007, Sherm ends this book by predicting that some future disease: " will seriously impact our lives: hospital facilities will be overwhelmed because medical personnel will also become sick … reserves of vaccines and drugs will soon be depleted, leaving most people vulnerable to infection. There will be social and economic disruptions."

 

How incredibly prescient he was!  

 

Sherm came into my life in the fall of 1979. Indeed, without Sherm, my life simply would have turned out differently.  My husband had begun a position on the faculty of Pomona College while I was still completing my PhD on the east coast and wondering how we were going to make this work.  That fall, a faculty position was advertised in my field in Biology at UCR, and my thesis adviser, who was a friend of Sherm, sent my CV to him.  I can still see in my mind’s eye the handwritten note that Sherm sent back to my advisor: “She looks perfect!”  His simple remark induced me to apply for the position, though I had no postdoctoral experience at the time much less had not yet completed my PhD and did not consider myself ready for a faculty position.

 

The search committee apparently felt differently, and I was one of several candidates invited to the UCR campus in January 1980 to interview.  I recall little of the two days I spent on campus as they were a whirlwind of meeting faculty and deans and of nonstop talking about research and teaching.  The night after my first day of interviews, though, I remember vividly. Sherm, as chair of the search committee, and Vilia took me out for dinner, a meal I shall never forget, not because of the food (meh, Cask and Cleaver, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, with Elizabethan wenches serving as waitresses), but memorable because of the extraordinary company in which I found myself.  The two of them were fascinating, charming, fiercely brilliant, and full of self-confidence and sharp wit, so well paired for each other and yet each so unique. We immediately hit it off and bonded over a shared love of Woods Hole and the MBL. 

 

As things turned out, I was offered the faculty position at UCR where I, too, spent my entire career.  I became fast friends and colleagues with Sherm over the decades we spent together on campus and in Woods Hole. I admired and respected his devotion to his research, to his students, and to the campus, and I thoroughly enjoyed the many lively discussions and good natured arguments we had over the years about science, UCR, the MBL, and life and politics generally.  The two of us also loved, perhaps more than we should have, the occasional gossip we engaged in, usually about various shared acquaintances we had in Woods Hole. One summer, when he was unable to come to Woods Hole, he wrote” Please say hi to any and all of our friends” and then he added in parentheses “ (but not to you know who!).” 

 

Although Sherm and Vilia had a group of close friends, and we were not quite of their generation, they were incredibly kind to my husband and me over the years and included us in so many lovely family and social occasions both here and in Woods Hole.  My husband recalls that it was at Jonathan’s bar mitzvah, a couple of years after we had moved to California, that my husband first felt truly at home here, perhaps because so many of the guests seemed as if they might be fellow ex-Bronxers, as were he and Sherm.  I recall how welcomed we felt at a seder at their house, and then at Alexa’s bat mitzvah, as if we were part of a lovely extended family.  There were wonderful parties in Woods Hole where it seemed as if they knew and were friends with just about everybody and it was on one of these occasions that we met their first grandchild, baby Zach.  Sadly, it was at our house in Woods Hole where we last saw Vilia, who was by then ill.  Far too soon, we were included in another family occasion, but this a sad one as we mourned, remembered and celebrated Vilia’s life.  A year later, as Sherm was navigating life without Vilia, he urged us all in a holiday card to  “Cherish those you love and who love you and express those sentiments”.  Sherm certainly embodied those words in his love for Vilia, wearing his heart on his sleeve over all those years we had known them.

 

As Sherm slowly began the task of rebuilding his life, we learned of and met Gail, and soon were hearing about their wonderful trips abroad.  He continued to write and to publish new books and he found a new love in painting.  He had this to say about his painting: “I have been taking a watercolor class for relaxation. Some of the paintings have turned out better than I expected. Not exactly Georgia O'Keefee but I'm trying.”  Sherm was his own best cheerleader.

 

In the fall of 2014, Sherm made a final visit to Woods Hole and, as it turned out, this would be the last time we saw him.  He was there for the memorial service of his old friend Phil Dunham.  In an email that Sherm had sent us earlier, telling us that he would be coming, he had this to say about Phil:  “When I learned of Phil Dunham's death I began to remember how we first met in 1963. He rented the downstairs apartment at 8 Orchard Street [this being in Woods Hole] and Vilia and a roommate the apartment above. Phil was a friend of George Holz from Syracuse and George and I were instructors in the Invertebrate course. For some strange reason Phil wasn't interested in romancing Vilia so I lucked out. It was next summer when George, Phil and I went to London for a Protozoology meeting and had an opportunity to meet my future in-laws. After meeting the family, Vilia's Mother wrote to her: "We wish it were Phil."  I think that anyone who was a witness to any part of Sherm and Vilia’s 43 year marriage would say that Vilia’s mother got that one wrong!

 

When the pandemic broke out, we were quite concerned about how isolated Sherm might be, but he assured us that he was adjusting and staying connected to the family online and was even attending a graduation by that mode.   He wanted to know if we were going to be able to make it to Woods Hole. We told him we would be going, driving across country rather than flying.  Later he emailed us to inquire as to whether we had made it safely there and then shared this recollection about that drive across country:  “When we did it in 1973 with Jonathan age 5 and Alexa 4 we lost them in Sioux Falls (they wandered out of the backyard of the friend’s house who we were visiting) …. Could not face the return drive so we paid someone to drive our car to Riverside. Never drove again!” 

 

Jonathan, Alexa: Surely you knew how much both your parents loved you and how proud they were of you, but perhaps you may not realize how much of that love and pride for you they relished conveying to their friends.  They had so much to be proud of because the two of you grew up into such wonderful people as is so clear from the lives you lived, the families you raised, and the care, devotion, and love you showed to your father in his time of greatest need. You were blessed with wonderful parents and they were blessed to have you.  We feel so enriched to have known your parents and to have shared in a small part of your family’s life.

 

May Sherm’s memory be a blessing.

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REMEMBRANCES

Christine B. Charlip

Director, American Society for Microbiology (ASM) Press

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I “inherited” Irwin Sherman as an author when I joined ASM Press as director in March 2011, and that June, at the American Society for Microbiology’s annual meeting, I met Irwin for the first and only time. Irwin was friendly and welcoming, the very picture of a relaxed, tanned southern Californian; he had traveled to New Orleans to size up his new publisher. I was happy to meet ASM’s best-selling author.

 

Irwin’s two most popular books, available at public libraries across North America, tell stories of how the power of microbes can change the course of history. In Twelve Diseases that Changed Our World, Irwin explained how important infectious diseases in history—bubonic plague, malaria, influenza, and HIV AIDs—infect us and how we have fought back. His clear and understandable prose made this book a gateway for readers young and old to the mysterious and fascinating field of infectious disease microbiology.

 

In The Power of Plagues, Irwin helped readers understand epidemic diseases and their impact on lives past, present, and future. He wrote about how important vaccines are, given that microbes rapidly evolve resistance to treatments. In the second edition, published in 2017, he wondered, “But in the future, might a pandemic occur? And if there is such a catastrophe, how will we deal with it?” His writing was truly prescient, and he lived to see the coronavirus pandemic unfold and how the world responded. As a student of history, Irwin already knew how the story would evolve; in 2007 he wrote in Twelve Diseases:

 

“Control of a disease takes more than an understanding of the biology of the pathogen—it requires proper financing, national will, and strategies for winning the public’s trust. Disease control also requires surveillance and projections of how the infectious agent will spread; then, too, there must be a consistent and equitable application of control measures by a robust health care system. In some instances, reaping the public health benefits derived from a scientific understanding of disease will necessitate institution of the most difficult of all interventions: a change in human behavior. We continue to be painfully aware of the power a disease can wield in effecting social and political changes on a grand scale and how it can reveal and exacerbate social tensions.”

 

Isn’t that the truth? I am grateful that Irwin chose to educate others about pathogenic microbes and the diseases they cause by writing books. He also wrote two books published by ASM Press focused on perhaps his “signature” infectious disease, malaria, one about treatments and the other about the long search for a malaria vaccine, which is still does not exist.

 

Irwin’s thoughtfulness and guidance live on in his books that will continue to influence generations. That’s quite a legacy.

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